
C0PHUGHT DEPOSIT. 



? 






THE 



DRAWING-ROOM STAGE: 



A SERIES OE ORIGINAL 



DRAMAS, COMEDIES, FARCES, 



ENTERTAINMENTS LOR AMATEUR THEATRICALS AND 
SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS. 



BY 



GEORGE M. BAKER, 

AUTHOR OF "AMATEUR DBAMAS," "THE SOCIAL STAGE," "THE 

1EQIIC STAGE," U A BAKER'S DOZEN HUAiOEOUS 

DIALOGUES," ETC. 



ILLUSTRATED. 



BOSTON: 

LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS. 

:N"EW YORK: 

LEE, SHEPARD AXD DILLIXGHAaI. 
1873. 



^ 



V 



y* 






Entered, according- to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, 

By GEORGE M. BAKER, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



Stereotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry, 
19 Spring Lane. 



PREFACE. 



As "The Social Stage," " The Mimic Stage," and 
" Amateur Dramas" are still "live" books in the pub- 
lishers' catalogue, and greedy amateurs are crying for 
" more," the author is confident that he will not wear his 
"welcome out by the publication of " The Drawing-room 
Stage ; " although, as it contains his fiftieth dramatic 
composition, the title of a " prolific writer," so often 
applied, for good or ill, to those who play frequent en- 
gagements upon the world's broad stage with pen and 
ink in " sock and buskin," may fairly be fastened 
upon him. This, certainly, is not always a meritorious 
distinction, and would be poor satisfaction to the author 
for his efforts, should not a few grains of truth and 
thought be found in his acres of caricature and bur- 
lesque. This volume, like its predecessors, is designed 
to present original and healthy entertainment for the 
home circle, the exhibition hall, and the school platform. 
The same plans which characterize the former volumes 
may be found here — the doing away with elaborate 

3 



4 PREFACE. 

scenery and costumes, the absence of strained and un- 
natural " spouting," and, as far as possible in dealing 
with every-day characters, the omission of " slang." 
Were this latter excluded altogether, a good play might 
be written, but the best-natured audience would fail to 
find " characters," or to be amused, and the strongest 
railer against this " custom of American society" be the 
first to turn his back upon the tedious performance. For 
the many favorable notices by the press of his previous 
works, the author returns thanks; to his unfavorable 
critics, he can only say, that as dramatic composition 
with him is but a pastime, and not an occupation, per- 
fection should not be expected. 



CONTENTS 



My Brother's Keeper. 


A Drama. 


PAGE 

7 


The Revolt of the Bees. 


An Allegory. . 


69 


A Tender Attachment. 


A Farce. . 


85 


Among the Breakers. 


. A Drama. 

m 
A Farce. . 


107 


Gentlemen of the Jury. 


171 


The Seven Ages. 


. A Tableau Entertainment 


187 


The Boston Dip. 


. A Comedietta. 


. 215 


The Duchess of Dublin. 


. A Farce. . 


. 241 



All the Plays in this book are furnished separately by the 
publishers. Price 15 cents each. 



MY BROTHER'S KEEPER. 



A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS. 



CHARACTERS. 

Abel Benton, Merchant. 

Matthew Allen, «\ 

Richard Carnes, >his Clerks. 

Charles Benton, 5 

Job Layton (Scraps), a Rag-picker. 

Grace Benton, Abel's daughter. 

Rachel Allen, Matthew's sister. 

Betsey Benton, Abel's sister.' 



COSTUMES. 



Abel Benton. Blue coat, white vest, white necktie, dark 
pants, gray wig, side w T hiskers. 

Matthew Allen and Richard Carnes. Act 1 and 2, Business 
suits. Act 3, Evening dress. 

Job Layton. Act 1, Ragged coat fastened at the waist with a 
rope, rough iron-gray wig, rough beard, dark pants, large 
boots unblacked, dark necktie, old hat. Act 2, Black pants 
and coat, white vest, white necktie, hair and beard trimmed. 
The dress should be good but slouchy. 

Charles Benton. Act 1, Dark pants, white shirt, a large wet 



8 my brother's keeper. 

handkerchief thrown loosely about his neck, boots in his hand, 
and coat over his arm, socks on his feet, hair dripping wet. 
Sprinkle the clothes with bits of isinglass for a general soused 
appearance ; change to Base Ball suit, with the letter G on 
breast. Act 2, Business suit. Act 3, Neat evening dress. 

Grace Benton. Act 1, Fashionable summer dress, with shawl 
and hat. Act 3, White evening dress, rich and tasty. 

Rachel Allen. Acts 1 and 2, Neat and pretty street dress. 
Act 3, White. 

Betsey Benton. Act 1, Black silk dress, scant, old-fashioned 
shawl and hat, gray front of hair. Act 3, Black silk dress, 
white bertha, front, and cap. 



Act 1. Scene. — Abel Benton's counting-room. Desk 
against wall, R. Desk against wall, L. Writing table, 
C, with draioer opening at back. Chairs before desks, 
R. and l. Chair r. of table. Lounge behind table, c. 
On desks inkstands, 'pens, paper, (he. The entrances 
are from r. and L. : that on the r. is from the ware- 
house and the street; that on the l. leads to Abel Ben- 
ton's private room. Richard Carnes discovered seated 
at desk, L. 

Richard. 56 — 65 — 72 — 81 — 90. Figures, figures, 
figures ! I'm heartily tired of this drudgery, day after 
day, casting up columns that add no sum total to my 
earthly happiness. If one could be as lucky as our head 
centre, Abel Benton, patience would indeed be a virtue. 
But he's one in a thousand. First a rag-picker, a 
searcher in cast-out heaps of rubbish for scraps of paper, 
rags, old junk, anything that by accumulation could pro- 
duce a few pennies with which to keep soul and body 



MY BROTIIER 8 KEEPER. \) 

together ; then, by the usual stages of honest industry, 
rising to the more honorable position of peddler, proprietor 
of a small junk shop, general speculator in paper stock, 
and now gathering rags from every quarter of the globe, 
supplying almost every paper-mill in the country ; with 
an income sufficient to glut the appetite of the most luxu- 
rious, and a name A 1 on the street ; while I, with a 
rich and stingy old father, am forced to drudge in the 
couuting-room of this opulent rag-picker for a meagre 
salary, keep myself, and grow rich on expectation. O, 
it's a funny world — 7 — 16 — 21 — a remarkably fa- 
cetious old globe — 32 — 37 — 41. Hallo ; who's there ? 

Enter Scraps, r., with a basket, hi aU his scenes his 
eyes are roving about the stage. and in this Act he -picks 
up scraps of rags and paper, which should be left about 

for that purpose. 

Scraps. Eh. hey ! (Puts his hand to his left ear with 
this word, always.) O, if you please, Mr. Games, here's 
my ticket from the warehouse ; twenty-five cents — white, 
all white, four pounds and a quarter — just twenty-live 
cents. Hey. Mr. Carnes. 

Rich, (takes ticket, and gives Scraps scrip from desk). 
Twenty-five cents ; and is that the extent of your day's 
pickings, Scraps? 

Scraps. Hey? Yes, that's all. Pickings is hard, 
Mr. Carnes. 

Rich. 0, you'll never amass a fortune at this rate. 
Look at the shining example of successful rag-picking at 
the head of our house, and stir your stumps a little more 
lively, Scraps. 



10 my brother's keeper. 

Scraps. Hey? Stir my stumps? O, no, can't do it. 
I've got the gout with too high living. Ha, ha ! high 
living ! I think I'll retire, and live on my fortune ; ha, 
ha ! my fortune ! That's good ; that's exceedingly good. 

Rich. You're an old sinner, Scraps. Now I've no 
doubt you have a snug sum stowed away in one of our 
banks. 

Scraps. Hey? 

Rich. You'll cut up rich one of these days. In which 
of our banks do you deposit ? 

Scraps. Cut up pranks, at my time of life — no, no. 

Rich, {rises, crosses, looks off, R., then comes down r. 
of Scraps). Now, look here, Scraps : you're not so deaf 
as you appear. I happen to want a hundred dollars. 
Lend it to me. I'll pay you ten per cent. ; the banks 
only give you six. Let me have a loan — 

Scraps. Hey? Let you alone? I can't hear, you 
know. You're on the wrong side. 

Rich, (angrily crosses to l., pushing Scraps back as he 
passes) . Bah ! you old fool ! None so deaf as those who 
won't hear. {Sits at desk.) 

Scraps (pointing l.). Is Mr. Benton in there, Mr. 
Carnes ? 

Rich. Yes, he's in there, and very busy settling his 
last year's business. Not to be disturbed. 

Scraps. O, he's a rich un, he is, and once he was 
as mean and dirty a rag-picker as I am. We were 
chummies then, we were ; ha, ha ! not very chummy now 
— not very. He was a chap what saved his money ; 
mine went as fast as it came. He took to books ; I 
took to billiards. He loved study ; I loved sport. And 



MY BROTHERS KEEPER. 11 

so the road in which we picked parted one day ; he 
crawled up hill, and I down. Now he's a looking off 
over his vast possessions from the top of the hill, and I'm 
picking away io the mud, far, far below. Let this be a 
warning to you. Mr. Carnes. 

Rich. 'Warning to me? What do you mean? 

S -ops. 0, you know what I mean. You're fond 
of billiards, and theatres, and — the tiger — you know 
you are : and I know it too, for I've watched you many a 
night. Xow Abel Benton don't like this. Here are you 
and Mr. Matthew Allen, equally trusted. He delights 
in books, you in billiards ; and depend upon it both of 
these, like everything else about here, will be weighed 
on Abel Benton's scales, and, when they do, billiards 
will kick the beam. 

:. You miserable street grubber, do you dare to 
threaten me? Leave the room at once. 

Scraps. Yes, billiards is mighty captivating. 

Rich, {seizing a rider, and approaching Scraps. 
backs to r.). Clear out, you croaking vagrant. 

Scraps. But it takes money, Mr. Carnes, it takes 
money. 

/:. Fool, take that! (Raises the rider. E 
fcZy, r.. Matthew.) 

Matthew {steps between , and arrests Dick's arm). Easy. 
Dick. easy. Scraps' head is not thick, and the ruler is 
very thin. Don't spoil either. 

Rich. Insolent old fool ! Were I master here, he 
should never show his ugly face in this place. ( Goes to 
desl\ l.) 

Then I'm very glad you're not, Dick. Scraps 



\ 



12 my brother's keeper. 

is a very worthy old fellow. Since you and I have been 
clerks for Mr. Benton, daily, winter and summer, he has 
dropped in upon us, and I, for one, should miss him. 

Swaps. Thank you, Mr. Allen. 

Rich. O, you've found your ears, have you.. 

Scraps. I haven't but one, Mr. Carnes ; the other's 
stopped, and I'm glad of it, for a poor old chap like me 
gets many a hard word flung at him, that can't touch the 
heart-strings when there's a closed door between. I'm 
much obliged to you, Mr. Allen. Mr. Carnes wanted 
to put me out, but, bless you, I don't mind it. I'm never 
put out, never ; and mark me, I shan't be the one put out 
here — no, no. (Exit) r.) 

Rich. The meddling old scamp ! 

Mat. Dick, you seem out of sorts to-day. What is 
the trouble between you and Scraps ? 

Rich. Nothing you can mend. Any news of the 
El my r a ? 

Med. She has just been telegraphed. 

Rich. Any private signals? 

Mat. Yes, English rags, full freight, consigned to 
Abel Benton. 

Rich. Of course — low market, high prices, and just 
in the nick of time the Elmyra sails into Abel Ben- 
ton's pocket w r ith a cargo of five thousand dollars in gold. 
The old scrub ! 

Mat. And who is old scrub ? 

Rich. The governor, the head centre, Abel Benton, 
of course. 

Mat. Gently, Dick, gently. He deserves more re- 
spect. He has been a kind master to you and me. 



my brother's keeper. 13 

Rich. Well, he ought to have made money enough 
by this time to retire and give us a chance. Now, here's 
the case of the Elmyra. You foretold a short market ; 
you proposed sending an agent across the water. Your 
advice was taken ; it has proved a success : yours was 
the venture ; to you should come the profits. 

Mat. Dick, you are unreasonable. Listen : that ship 
sailing into port reminds me that seven years ago I stood 
on the deck of a vessel sailing into this same port. Com- 
ing to this country from old England, a lad of fourteen, 
leaving behind me the fresh-tufted grave of my mother, 
the only protector I had in the world, my only companion 
my sister, four years younger. Dick, you have father 
and mother, rich and powerful friends, everything about 
you comfortable and pleasant. You never knew what it 
is to cry with hunger, to shiver with cold, as I did in 
the old country ; you never stood, as I stood then, on the 
deck of a vessel with not a cent in my pocket, knowing 
not what awaited me amid the domes and spires of the 
city we were nearing fast. If you had, Dick, if you had 
suffered all this, and then felt upon your shoulder the 
hand which fell upon mine as I leaped ashore, looked 
into the kindly face that I looked into, you would strain 
every faculty of your being to serve the interests of so 
kind a benefactor as Abel Benton. 

Rich. Benefactor, indeed ! I tell you, Matt, you think 
too little of yourself. Benton is shrewd. I've no doubt 
he read in your face, at first sight, the energy and spirit 
by which he has profited. You've given him hard work 
for every dollar expended. 

Mat. Then, there's my sister. He has been like a 



14 my brother's keeper. 

father to her. She is treated in his house as a daughter, 
every wish gratified, almost spoiled by his indulgence. 

Rich. Well, he doesn't spoil us by indulgence. His 
old-fashioned notions put double work upon us. He 
won't have a safe, but requires one of us to sleep here 
every night. It's, very lucky nothing has ever disap- 
appeared from the warehouse, for I believe he would dis- 
charge us on mere suspicion. 

Mat. He's an odd man, Dick, and no one can tell to 
what his whims may lead ; but with clear consciences, 
and determination to do our best, we need not fear his 
changing humors. (Sits at desk, r.) 

Charley {outside, r.). Old rags ! old rags ! (Enter, R.) 
Here you are, now, a prime lot, a little damaged by salt 
water. Who bids? Going, going. 

Mat. Why, Charley, where did you come from ? 

Ghas. (takes handkerchief off his neck, and wrings out 
the water). The bottom of the sea. " The sea, the sea, 
the boundless sea." I'm a river god, a mermaid, — 
Charley Benton as a live mermaid ; his first appearance 
on any stage. 

Mat. Come, Charley, be sober. 

Chas. Sober ! Do you know where I've been? I've 
been in the depths of sobriety — at the bottom of the bay. 
I can lead you to the spot where the flounders are thick- 
est, for I've floundered among them ; where the smelts 
congregate, for I've smelt 'em ; where the rock is in the 
cradle of the deep, for I went straight for it — red hot. 

Rich. You've been overboard. 

Chas. Considering my present humid appearance, 
that w r as not a very remarkable guess. 



my brother's keeper. 15 

-V \ A through. 

Chas, Thank you ; that's a very dry remark. Any 
more ini [o jwa : 

>u don't change your clothes at once you 11 
be laid up for a month. 

Chas. Th ink : ; ; any fool could tell me that; but 
don't trouble yourself; I've a dry suit in the loft. 
But what sent you overboard? 
Chas. My love of business. I was hurrying down 
rharf to catch sight of the Elmyra, and — somebody's 
been she: ;: wharf, for, before I knew it, I was 

in the briny, and bound for the bottom. 

:. You lummux, walked overboard? 
Chas. Exactly ring for help, which did not 

until I'd been down clamming at the bottom. 
Well, run and change your clothes. 
Chas. My base ball uniform is up stairs, and if I can 
keep out of the governor's way, I'm all right. Mum. 
boys, for he's down on the manly sport. He knows noth- 
ing of the glories of the base ball field, and if he finds me 
:i :':.: ~ rig I shall cure:: it. {JExU^ R. 

h. Clumsy- chap. Served him right. 
Mat. Hold on, Dick. There's the faintest shadow^ 
o: a mystery here. Charley may have accidentally walked 
overboard, bat he took precious good care to remove his 
boots firs:. Did you notice ? They w^ere as dry as mine. 
. find there is more in this than appears on the face 
of it. 

Rich. Matt, you're always finding excuses for him. 
Mat. Am I? Well, it's because he's a noble-hearted 
fellow. If he's no: a driving business man, it's because 



16 my brother's keeper. 

he has a rich father, and does not feel the need of exer- 
tion. It's time Mr. Benton was informed of the arrival 
of the Elmyra. Where away to-night, Dick ? 

Rich. The usual round : a little billiards, a peep into 
the theatres, and a good time generally. Will you go 
with me ? 

Mat. No, I thank you, Dick. It's my night on guard 
here, and, besides, I don't fancy your sport. Ah, Dick, 
it's a pity you're so fond of it. If Mr. Benton should get 
an inkling of your predilections, 'twould go hard with you. 
Have a care, old boy, have a care. (Exit, l.) 

Rich, (at desk, l.). Have a care, indeed! Preach 
away, parson. You fancy you are feathering your nest 
by the remarkably moral life you lead. Bah ! With all 
my love for sport, I can hoid my place in old Benton's 
warehouse. He trusts me as fully as he does you ; con- 
fides to me as important business as he does to you. I 
have the advantage in being the oldest, and shrewdness 
enough to keep my pleasures from being noticed by the 
head centre. But I'd like to see you, Matt Allen, taken 
down a peg, and if ever I have the chance, you shall be 
brought to your level, depend upon it. ( Writes.) 

Enter Scraps, cautiously, r. 

Scraps (aside). I've been hunting everywhere for 
Master Charley. O, he's a sly one. Hullo ! there's Mr. 
Carnes again. Ho, ho ! he'd break my head, would he ? 
he'd turn me. out, would he? We shall see. It's time 
Abel Benton knew the snake he is warming. O, I'll 
reward him for his kindness. 



MY BROTIIEU'8 keeper. 17 

Enter Charley, r., in base ball dress. Snatches the bas- 
ket from Scraps, and covers his head ivith it. 

Scraps. Help ! murder ! help ! (Extricating himself 
from basket.) Hallo, Master Charley ! Up to your old 
tricks, hey? 

Chas. Tricks, indeed ! I was only filling your basket 
with what it so much needs — old rags, old rags. 

Scraps. Xow — now — now — you're a funny dog, 
Master Charley. But, my eyes, how fine you're rigged ! 
Going sojering, hey? 

Chas. Sojering? Xo. This is the emblematic costume 
of the Gooseneck Base Ball Club. Ain't it gay, red hot. 

Rich. Red hot! It will be well warmed if the gov- 
ernor catches you. 

Chas. But I don't mean he shall. When he takes 
the field, " I'm out on the fly." Ah, Dick, you should 
join us. It's glorious sport. 

Rich. Bah ! it's so fatiguing and so dirty ! 

Chas. It may be for you, lily fingers. You'd rather 
spend your time in a smoky billiard room. But for me, 
give me the free air, the green field, strong, tough fellows 
striving for the mastery, every muscle alive with health, 
sharp eyes, eager hands, quick legs, the strike, the run, 
the catch. O, it's glorious ! Hey, Scraps? 

Scraps. O, yes. How much do you get for it? 

Chas. O, pshaw, Scraps ! don't be mercenary. Get 
fame, glory. (Takes a small leather case from his pocket, 
and opens it.) Look at that. That's what we get for it. 
There's a badge to be presented to Bob Dyke, our pitcher, 
this evening, as a slight token of the Goosenecks' appre- 
2 



18 my brother's keeper. 

ciation of his valuable services. And I'm to make the 
presentation speech. Ain't it gay? 

Scraps. Well, 'tis handsome. And you to make a 
speech? I declare, I should like to hear you make a 
speech. 

Chas. Would you? Then you shall. You shall be 
the pitcher, not exactly the figure, but you'll do for a re- 
hearsal now. You stand there. (Places him in c, and 
goes down, r.) Ahem ! ahem ! Renowned pitcher — 

Scraps. Hey ? 

Chas. Now what's the matter with you? 

Scraps. Why, you're on the wrong side. 

Chas. (crossing (ol.), All right. I forgot the imped- 
iment. Now then. Renowned — O, stand up ; present 
a dignified aspect. 

Scraps. Hey? Me present. I thought you was a 
joiner to do that. 

Chas. O, you're a muff. Stand up ; throw out your 
chest. There, that's better. Now. Renowned pitcher ! 
champion of the ball field, model of muscular manliness 
— O, hold up your head, will you ? 

Scraps. How can I hear if I hold up my head? 

Chas. Shut up ! Paragon of perfect proportions, po- 
litest of peripatetic pitchers, how much we owe thee ! 

Scraps. Not a cent. Mr. Carnes settled — 

Chas. Shut up ! As we look back to the glorious 
victories achieved on Potter's field, we see thy noble form 
animated with a spirit bold and daring — 

Scraps. Hey ? Spirits ? 'Pon my word I never drank 
a drop ; and as for swearing — 

Chas. Shut up ! In the front of battle, winning re- 



my brother's keeper. 19 

nown for the Goosenecks. We would express our grati- 
tude ; and it devolves upon me, the humble instrument 
of our victorious nine, to present you this slight token of 
our appreciation of your valuable services. Take it, prize 
it for the giver's sake ; take it, wear it over your noble 
heart. (Enter, l., Mr. Benton, followed by Matthew 
Allen.) Take it — 

Mr. Benton {takes badge). Thank you, and once in 
my possession I shall preserve it ; depend upon that, 
Charley Benton. 

Chas. (crosses to r.). The governor. Foul ball. 

Scraps. Is that all, Charley? 

Mr. B. So, sir, in spite of my repeated warnings, I 
find you tricked out in a garb I have forbidden, making 
a fool of yourself when you should be attending to busi- 
ness. Shame, shame, Charles ! I thought you were 
more of a man. 

Chas. Yes, sir, it's a mistake ; I — I — I know it's 
wrong, but I tumbled overboard a while ago, and as I 
w T as very dry — no, wet — I — 

Mr. B. Tumbled overboard? 

Chas. Yes, accidentally — not on purpose — walked 
overboard. 

Scraps. Don't you believe it, Abel Benton ; don't you 
believe it. It's a lie ; a downright lie. 

Chas. Scraps, I'll break your head. 

Scraps. Hey? You're on the wrong side. O, I 
know him, Abel Benton, I know him, the smooth-tongued 
villain, and I'll expose his wickedness too. 

Mr. B. Well, Job, what do you know? 

Scraps. I know all about it. It's the common talk 



20 my brother's keeper. 

on the wharf ; and if I have but one ear ; that's wide 
open. 

Ghas. Scraps, if you say another word — 

Scraps, Hey? — O, you're on the wrong side. O, 
he's a deep one. An hour ago he was on the wharf - — 
this scoundrel. Walking coolly down the wharf. Just 
before him was a little ragged, dirty girl — 

Ghas. Scraps, Scraps, your life's in danger. 

Scraps. Hey? — You're on the wrong side. Creeping 
along, picking up chips, and this rogue, this scamp, close 
behind her. She reached the end of the wharf — 

Ghas. Scraps, another word, and I'll strike — 

Scraps. Hey? — You're on the wrong side, I tell you. 
— Her foot slipped, and over she went ; and this villain, 
this cold-blooded villain — 

Mr. B. Looked coolly on. 

Scraps. Cool, — his boots were off in a second, and 
over he went, t seized the child, and held her head above 
water until they were both drawn out. Look at him! 
look at the calm, cool, calculating villain. O, he's a 
deep one. 

Mr. B. Charles, is this true ? 

Ghas. I'm sorry to say it is, sir. 

Mr. B. Sorry ! Charley, my boy, you're a noble — 
Hem ! yes, sir, you have disobeyed my orders, and I shall 
see that you are punished. As for this trinket, I'll take 
care of it. (Unlocks drawer in table, c, deposits the~case, 
and then locks drawer.) Here it is safe, but you see it 
no more. {Exit, l.) 

Ghas. Out on the badge. Scraps, I've a great mind 
to pommel you. 



my brother's keeper. 21 

Mat. No you won't, Charley, for he's defended you. 
Give me your hand. You're an honor to the house. 
Scraps. What did I tell you? Villany is always 

found out, always. 

Chas. O, I'll be even with you, Scraps. 

Scraps. Hey? — You're on the wrong side. 

Chas. We've had quite enough of your interference ; 
so go. 

Scraps. Yes, I'll go down on the wharf, and hunt up 
more of your crimes. O, you're a sly one ; deceive 
your father, hey ! walk overboard, hey ! Ha, ha ! you'll 
catch it. Ha. ha ! {At door, r.) I say, Charley, red 
hot, red hot ! (Exit, r.) 

Mat. Dick, here's Foley's invoice. You copy that, 
and I'll take Dixon's. They must both go by next mail. 
{Sits at desk, R.) 

Rich, (at desk, l.). All right, Matt. 

Chas. (sits on table, a). "I saw it but a moment, 
but methinks I don't see it now." The renowned pitch- 
er's badge has gone into the governor's drawer, and how 
the renowned pitcher is to get it, and how the subscriber 
is to present it to the renowned pitcher, are questions of 
vital importance, in fact, red hot. The governor won't 
give it up ; but I must have it. 

Rachel (outside, r.). Goodness gracious, I shall die, 
I know I shall. 

Betsey (outside, r.). Do behave yourself, Rachel 
Allen. I declare, you mortify me to death. 

Rachel. Can't go another step. (Enters, r., with her 
arms full of bundles. She drops them in a heap on the 
floor, r., and falls on her knees.) It's no use. It's that 



22 my brother's keeper. 

last camel hair shawl that broke this camel's back. 
Why, hallo, Charley ! 

Chas. And hallo, Shellie ! what's the matter? 

Enter Aunt Betsey, r., shaking her parasol at an imagi- 
nary foe outside. 

Betsey. Don't you look at me ! Don't you dare to 
look at me ! Mind your business, impudence. 

Chas. What's the matter, Aunt Betsey? 

Betsey. Do look at that impudent — Go away, I say. 
Don't stand gawking at me. S'pose he never saw a 
woman afore. Jest like 'em ; they're all alike. 

Chas. (looking off, R.). Why, he isn't looking at you, 
Aunt Betsey. 

Betsey. I tell you he is. I know he is. You can't 
fool me. 

Chas. No, he's not looking at you, for the very good 
reason that he's blind. It's only old Foley. 

Rachel. O, Aunt Betsey ! Ha, ha, ha ! what blind 
devotion ! 

Betsey (sitting in chair R. of table). Well, I never ! 
Rachel Allen, wmere's your dignity? Get up from that 
floor directly. 

Chas. What's all this? Where have you been? 

Rachel. Been shopping ; and O, my, didn't we make 
a commotion ! There's nothing but bare shelves and 
bare counters in every dry goods store from the Park to 
the Square. 

Betsey. Goodness gracious ! hear that child talk. 
And there's all my things a being ruined on this dirty 
floor. 



my brother's keeper. 23 

Chas, (picks up bundles, and places them on table). 
Wlibsc are these things? 

Rachel. They're all mine, except the five largest ; 
those are Aunt Betsey's. 

Chas. And there's only six in the lot. That's a very 
modest way of letting me know that you've been loaded 
down with Aunt Betsey's purchases. Why not have 
them sent home? 

Betsey. Young man, mind your business. When I 
go shopping I mean to have just what I buy, and nothing 
else. Them air counter chaps air dreadful spry and 
smilin, but they can't deceive Betsey Benton. Never ! 

Chas. But, Aunt Betsey, 'tis too much for Shellie's 
little arms. 

Betsey. Young man, mind your business. When I 
was a gal I had to work, and I mean everybody round 
me shall, if I can make work for 'em. 

Chas. Now look here, Aunt Betsey ; you and I will 
have a falling out one of these days, if you don't treat 
Shellie better. 

Betsey. Highty-tity, young man ! Mind your busi- 
ness. She ain't a goin to be brought up to a life of idle- 
ness, I tell you. 

Rachel. O, now, don't quarrel about me. Why, 
there's brother Matt. (Crosses, r., and puts her hand 
on his shoulder.) Well, brother Money Grub, how's 
trade ? 

Mat. Ah, Sunshine ! The Elmyra's come. Trade 
is looking up. 

Rachel. O, I'm so glad. I wish I was a man. It 
must be so grand to make money. 



24 my brother's keeper. 

Chas. Why, you're avaricious, Shellie. 

Rachel. No, I'm not, Charley. I want the money 
with which to buy richer treasures — the poor man's 
blessing and the sufferer's smile. 

Mat. Ah, Shellie, if we could only think so after we 
acquire riches ! But where have you been ? 

Rachel. Been shopping ; and, don't you think, Aunt 
Betsey was nearly run over. O, such fun ! 

Betsey. Fun ! fuu ! Well, I never ! I'm most dead 
with fright, and that young one calls it fun ! 

Rachel. Yes, we were just crossing the main street, 
when somebody called out, " Look out, there ! " And of 
course we looked out, and there was a running horse 
almost upon us. I gave one leap and landed on the side- 
walk, but Aunt Betsey she just stood in the street, and 
flourished her parasol, when a ragged individual rushed 
between her and the horse, caught her up in his arms, 
and placed her on the sidewalk. O, she did look so 
funny, with her arms flying about like a windmill, and 
screaming like a locomotive. 

Betsey. Well, I never ! And you stood on the side- 
walk and laughed — absolutely laughed. I never was so 
mortified in my life. 

Rachel. Ha, ha, ha ! I couldn't help it, you did look 
so in the arms of your preserver. 

Betsey. Rachel Allen, I'm petrified ! Where on airth 
is your dignity ! 

Mat. 'Twas a very serious matter. And who was 
the brave man who rescued you ? 

Betsey. How should I know ? While I was looking 
for a dollar to give him, he slipped off. 



MY BROTHER S KEEPER. 25 

Chas. I should tliink lie would. A dollar for saving 
your life. {Aside.) O, it's too much. 

Betsey. Where's your father ? 

Chas. In his office, Aunt Betsey. 

Betsey. Well, Rachel, you pick up the bundles. I'll 
just speak to him, and then we must be getting home. 
{Exit, l.) 

Rachel. Why, how queer you're dressed, Charley ! 
Is that your working suit? 

Chas. Well, no — yes, it is one of my working suits. 

Rachel. What does the letter G stand for? 

Rich. Stands for Goose, Shellie. 

Rachel. Ha, ha, ha ! How very appropriate ! 

Mat. 'Tis very appropriate, Shellie, but it doesn't 
stand for goose. It's the initial of Great, and, placed 
where it now is, it fitly represents the great heart beneath it. 
Charley wears that dress at this time, Shellie, because he 
has just saved a little girl from drowning at the risk of 
his own life. 

Rachel. That's just like him. He's always doing 
something brave. {Goes up and takes his hand.) O, 
Charley, I shall love you just as long as I live. 

Chas. Will you, though, Shellie? Then let me tell 
you that I shall ask that — I am — that you are — 

Rachel. Why, what's the matter, Charley? 

Chas. Well — I was going to say — that I — that I 
am — 

Enter Betsey, l. 

Betsey. Now, Rachel, get your bundles, and we'll go. 
Chas. Once for all, Aunt Betsey, I tell you I will not 
have it. She shall not carry those bundles. 



26 my brother's keeper. 

Betsey. I say she shall. Young man, mind your busi- 
ness. 

Chas. So I will ; and it's my business to relieve the 
weaker sex of their cares when I can. I'll just take pos- 
session of the bundles, and bring them up to-night. 

Betsey. Young man, I insist — 

Chas. Now, look here, Aunt Betsey ; don't get me 
mad ; for when I get angry I always run and jump off the 
wdiarf — and I don't go alone. 

Betsey. Good gracious ! Do you mean to say you 
would throw me overboard ? 

Chas. I'm afraid I should if I got mad. 

Betsey. Come, Rachel, let's go. That youth is on 
the broad road going to destruction. Come. (Exit, r.) 

'Rachel. Good by. I'm coming back with Grace when 
she comes for her father. O, Charley, for shame ! 
Threatening to throw Aunt Betsey overboard ! (Exit, r.) 

Chas. Of all the aggravating creatures, Aunt Betsey 
is a little ahead. Why don't she get married? She's 
old enough. She's no earthly use in our house, except 
to fret and worry, and interfere in all my little, arrange- 
ments. (Enter Scraps, r.) Hullo ! you back again? 

Scraps. Hey? yes. I've a little business with your 
father. I say, Master Charley, who's that lady I just 
met? 

Chas. Lady? The young one or the old one? 

Scraps. The tall, fine-looking lady. (Pointing, R.) 
There, that one. 

Chas. Fine looking ! (Aside.) Scraps is smitten. 
(Aloud.) That's Aunt Betsey, father's sister. Did you 
ever see her before ? 



my brother's keeper. 27 

Scraps. Hey ? No — yes — yes — once. 

Chas. You did! Where? 

Scraps. Now, now, Charley, none of that. You're on 
the wrong side. 

Chas. (aside). He's smitten, red hot! By Jove, an 
idea. Scraps is rich. Why can't I make a match be- 
tween them? Dress him up, and start him courting 
Aunt Betsey. That's one way to get rid of her. (Aloud.). 
Ah, Scraps, you sly dog, I thought you'd met before. 
She often speaks of you. 

Scraps. Often speaks of me ? 

Chas. Yes, thinks you are not what you seem. No- 
bility beneath the ragged covering, soul shines through 
his shaggy eyebrows, and all that sort of thing. 0, she's 
romantic. 

Scraps. Often speaks of me? Well, that's singular. 

Chas. Now's your chance, Scraps. Dress up ; put 
on a bold air ; you've got the money. " Woo her as 
the lion woos his bride ; " and she'll fall into your arms. 

Scraps. Yes. Well, I'll think about it; I'll think 
about it. 

Enter Mr. Benton, l. 

Mr. B. This note, Richard, must be in Captain Bax- 
ter's hands at once. 

Rich. Yes, sir. I'll despatch a messenger immedi- 
ately. (Exit, r.) 

Mr. B. Matthew, the Spooner Mills are short of 
stock. We can get our own price for the Elmyra's 
cargo. 

Mat. Then I'd better run up in the morning. 

Mr. B. I think you had. Take the first train. You 



28 my brother's keeper. 

can return in the evening. By the way, who sleeps here 
to-night ? 

Mat. 'Tis my wateh, sir. 

Mr. B. That's bad. Yon cannot catch the early 
train. 

Mat. O, yes, if Charley can come down at six. 

Mr. B. No ; I'll relieve you myself. 

Mat. All right, sir ; I'll make my arrangements ac- 
cordingly. (Exit, R.) 

Mr. B. Charles, go into my office. I've a few words 
for you. 

Chas. Yes, sir. (Aside.) Words that burn — red 
hot ! (Exit, l.) 

Mr. B. Well, Job, old friend, how wags the world 
with you ? 

Scraps. Hey ? O, well, Abel ; well. I pick up 
enough to keep soul and body together, and now and then 
a dollar for a rainy day. 

Mr. B. Why will you persist in this vagabond life? 
You would be a valuable man to me in the warehouse. 
I have often urged you to take a place here. 

Scraps. I know it, Abel ; but I like to be my own 
master. Here I should be cramped. Regular hours and 
regular work — Not for me, Abel ; not for me. 

Mr. B. I don't like to see an old friend creeping 
about the streets, picking rags from the gutter like a 
vagrant. Look at me. The old life is almost blotted 
out of memory. I have made . my way to a respectable 
position, while you, who started in life with me, still 
cling to the old existence. It's too bad, Job. 

Scraps. No, Abel, not too bad, for it's the life I love, 



my brother's keeper. 29 

You were ambitious to rise in the world ; to get money. 
You have been successful, and your old friend rejoices in 
your prosperity. But all your wealth requires much 
care. You are anxious, uneasy. There are hard lines 
in your face. The failure of one of your speculations 
would go near to break your heart. While I manage to 
scrape, u here a little, and there a little," roam about, 
look and laugh at the follies of the world, watch the 
struggles and triumphs of busy men, and speculate, with- 
out risk, on the rise and fall of stocks. 

Mr, B. That's very ragged philosophy, Job. 

Scraps. Hey? Philosophy? Xo, that's freedom, and 
freedom gives one so much time for obseryation to ac- 
quire knowledge. Why, Abel, I know more about your 
business than you do. With all your wealth, you are at 
the mercy of your clerks. 

Mr. B. My clerks are models of industry, energy, 
and honesty. 

Scraps. All of them ? 

Mr. B. Yes ; I would not have in my employ one hour 
a young man whom I could not trust fully. 
■ Scraps. Blind, Abel, blind. I know better. I've 
seen one of your clerks at the gaming-table night after 

J coo 

night. I have seen him enter places where no honest 
man should go. I have seen this, Abel. I'm a little dull 
of ear, but I've a sharp eve. 

Mr. B. One of my clerks, Job ? Which one ? 

Scraps. Hey? — Xow, you're on the wrong side. 
Abel Benton, find out yourself. I will watch, but you 
must trap the game. 

Mr. B. Is it my son? I tremble while I ask it. 



30 



Scraps. What, Charley? No, no ; he's the soul of 
honor. 

Mr. B. Is it — 

Scraps. No, no ; fair play, Abel. I've set you on the 
track. I shall do no more. 

Mr. B. Very well, I will watch, and if I have the 
faintest suspicion I will act. My clerks ! Job, if I did 
not know you so well, I should doubt you, and not them. 

Scraps. O, I'm all right. Now for a little business. 
I had a scare last night, Abel. Somebody broke into my 
room, seized me by the throat, and demanded money ; 
but I had strength enough to throw him off, and rouse my 
neighbors. He escaped; my money was safe; but it 
must be put in a safer place. (Produces small bag.) 
Here is a hundred dollars, all in gold. You, Abel, must 
take care of it. 

Mr. B. Certainly. (Takes bag, goes to table, c, sits 
and ivrites.) I shall not count it ; your word is enough. 
It shall be well takeu care of. Here's your receipt. 
(Gives receipt.) The money shall go in here. (Opens 
the drawer in table where he has placed the badge, and 
locks it.) 

Scraps. What ! Leave my money there after what I 
told you? 

Mr. B. For that very reason. You have directed 
suspicion to one of my clerks. Your money should be 
the bait to catch the rogue. Hush ! No more. Here is 
my daughter. 

Enter Grace, r. 

Grace (a). Good afternoon, father. Are you ready 
to escort me home ? 



my brother's keeper. 31 

Mr. B. (l.). In a few moments, Grace. This is an 
old friend of mine, Job Layton. 

Grace. One I have longed to see. (Crosses to Scraps, 
r., and takes his hand. — Scraps confused.) My father 
often speaks of you, his old friend. Why don't you come 
and see us ? You shall be heartily welcome, and I will 
do my best to entertain you. 

Scraps. Lord bless you, pretty one, your father and 1 
parted company years ago — he to go up, I to stick in 
the mud. I go to your house? Why, your servants 
would slam the door in my face. 

Grace. No, no, Mr. Layton, nobody is driven from 
our door. There's our easy-chair waiting for you, and if 
you will come you shall find yourself with true friends. 
Now promise me you will come. 

Scraps. Yes, yes, some time I will come. (Turns to 
door, r.) Good by. (Aside.) She's a darling. Ah, 
Abel may well be proud of such a daughter. And I, — I 
might have had a daughter to hang about my neck, to 
brighten my home, instead of being a lonely, ragged 
scavenger. O, Job, Job, I begin to doubt you. Freedom 
is all very well, but the chain which a loving child throws 
about a father makes slavery worth enduring. Bah, 
Job ! You a philosopher ! More likely an old fool — an 
old fool. (Exit, r.) 

Mr. B. Grace, if that man survives me, look to it that 
he never suffers. When I was poor he w r as my best 
friend. Many a time in our rag-picking days he has 
robbed his basket to fill mine. Under that old coat there's 
a true heart. He must never suffer. 

Grace. Never, if I can help it, father. Charley is 
very fond of him. Where is Charley, father? 



32 my brother's keeper. 

Mr. B. In disgrace. Waiting in my room for the lec- 
ture he so richly deserves. 

Grace. Why, what has he been doing? 

Mr. B. Jumping overboard to save a drowning child. 
I could forgive that, but he's rigged himself in that out- 
lawed sporting suit, for which he shall be well lectured. 

Enter Dick, r. 

Rich. Good afternoon, Miss Benton. {Bows, and 
crosses to desk, l.) 

Grace. Good afternoon, Mr. Carnes. 

Enter Matthew, r. 

Mat. Ah, Miss Grace ! You are early. 
Grace. Matthew, I'm glad to meet you. (Shakes 
liands with him.) Yes, I've come to carry father off. 

Enter Rachel, r. 

Rachel. There, I've torn my dress with one of those 
dirty bales. I declare, I can't see the use of having so 
many rags about. 

Mr. B. To turn into mouey, Shellie. 

Rachel. Hallo, Uncle Abe ! Out of your den? Come, 
get your hat. We've come to lead you home. 

Mr. B. I'll be ready soon. By the by, young gentle- 
men, I have placed a hundred dollars in gold in the upper 
drawer of that table for safe keeping. It belongs to Job 
Layton. 

Mat. A hundred dollars ? Isn't that an unsafe place 
for so large a sum? 

Mr. B. Not while I have honest clerks. I shall be 



my brother's keeper. 33 

very glad to see you at my home to-morrow evening. 
You will return in ample time, Matthew. You will meet 
there my partner. 

All. Yowr partner ! 

Mr. B. Yes, I am getting old, and have decided to 
take a partner — a young and active man. You will 
have an opportunity to make his acquaintance before he 
enters upon his duties. (Exit, l.) 

Grace. Now he's going to scold Charley. But not 
if I can help it. I've prevented it before, and I'll try it 
again. (Exit, L.) 

Mat. (sits at his desk). A partner! A young and 
active man ! Who can it be ? 

Rachel (comes clown and leans over his chair). What's 
the matter, brother? 

Mat. Thinking, Sunshine, thinking. We must all do 
that, you know. 

Rachel. Well, then, tell me your thoughts. My 
brother should have no secrets from his keeper. That's 
the bargain, Matthew. 

Mat. A new master is to step in here, Shellie — 
here, where, for seven years, we have worked so well 
together — the old master and his clerks. A man with 
new ideas, perhaps tyrannical, to upset the old smooth 
order of things. What says my keeper to that? 

Rachel. She says, Think on, brother. Think of the 
good old man who laid his hand on your shoulder so 
kindly when you were a stranger in a strange land ; 
who has been your steadfast friend from that hour to 
this, and say, Let new masters come ; Avhile the old 
master lives I have faith that he will never doubt me. 



34 my brother's keeper. 

Mat. Right, my keeper, right. Do what he may 
I will believe he loves and trusts me. 

Enter Charley, l. 

Chas. Well, I'm out on that. After roosting on a 
high stool for nearly half an hour, anxiously expecting 
a storm, that dear sister of mine drops in just as the 
clouds begin to gather, and all's sunshine. Hallo, Shel- 
lie ! You here again ? 

Rachel. Yes, Charley. Come, pick up the bundles, 
and start the caravan. 

Chas. But we must wait for Grace. 

Rachel. Then let's take a stroll down the wharf. I 
want to see the place where you walked overboard. 

Chas. Yes, where I put my foot in it. I can lead 
you to it. It's a delightful spot, so cool and retired. 
Come along. (Exit, r.) 

Rich. Well, Matt. 

Mat. Well, Dick. 

Rich. What are you going to do about it — the new 
partner ? 

Mat. Accept the new order of things, and work as 
diligently as ever. 

Rich. Matt Allen, you're a fool ! There should be 
no partner in this concern except you or me. The head 
centre cannot want capital. Perhaps this is a surprise 
for one of us. 

Mat. Surprise? That's not his way of doing busi- i 
ness, Dick. Think of our staid, sober old master per- 
petrating a joke ! I couldn't imagine it. No, it's an 
outsider, — who, I cannot guess. 



my brother's keeper. 35 

Bich. I have a strong suspicion, Mat, that you 
are the man. You have a strong friend beside the 
throne. 

Mat. A strong friend? Who do you mean? 

Bich. Grace Benton. It needs no very sharp eyes 
to see that she looks upon you with favor. Always a 
smile, a pleasant word, for you. She listens as though 
you were an oracle when you speak, and blushes when 
your step is heard. All sure signs. Don't be a fool, 
Mat. She's a rich catch. Be bold, and she is yours. 

Mat. {rising, indignantly). Silence, Dick Carnes ! 
Another word and I shall forget that we are friends, 
and chastise you for your insolence. Do you think me 
so base as to take advantage of the kindness that seeks 
to make me forget my humble position? so mean as 
to betray the trust reposed in me by my employer? 
Grace Benton is too high in social position for me to 
dare approach her as a suppliant for her hand or heart. 
Dick, I believe I am an honest man. I look upon a for- 
tune-hunter as no better than a thief snatching at the 
treasures of another ; and rather than have this imputa- 
tion cast at me I'd leave this place forever. 

Rich. But, Mat, if she loves — 

Mat. Silence ! Another word and w T e are enemies. 
{Sits, R.) 

Bich. {aside). High and mighty! Chastise me for 
my insolence ! Well, two can play at that game. An 
honest man, indeed ! He's too honest. He has no sus- 
picion that the new partner is himself. I have. And 
he's to step above me. I'd like to thwart the head cen- 
tre. If he could be made to suspect Mat ! But how ? 



36 my brother's keeper. 

Ah, the drawer ! Scraps's hundred dollars ! The head 
centre has the key, but it's not the only key that opens. 
The key of Mat's desk fits that lock. I know, for I've 
tried it. It's his w r ateh to-night. I've an idea. (Rises, 
puts on his hat, and crosses, r.) Mat, don't get angry. 
You deserve the partnership, and you deserve the girl. 
It's a pity you can't have both. Good night. — (Aside, at 
door, r.) An honest man ! I've known a fortune to be 
lost in a single night, and why not a character. Mat 
Allen, this night I'll play for yours. (Exit, R.) 

Mat. She looks upon me with favor. She, the bright 
being that I have worshipped afar off, as men look upon 
treasures far beyond their reach. What could he mean? 
Have I betrayed myself? Does he know how madly I 
love her? No, no ; never by word, look, or act have I 
betrayed my secret. Ah, Grace, Grace ! glorious, unat- 
tainable ; the idol of a cultivated circle, with a throng of 
admirers about you, your fortune is a safeguard against 
the approach of the humble worshipper — (Grace enters, 
advances across stage, and leans on his chair, listening) — 
who w^ould die to show his devotion. Year by year this 
love has grow x n upon me, and now 'tis almost too strong 
to prison in my heart. But I will be strong. I know 
'tis an honest love, that could boldly speak were all the 
barriers of w r ealth and station removed. But this can 
never be ; so to my heart alone, as to a sacred shrine, 
I'll go to worship you, my glorious Grace. 

Grace. Dreaming the happy hours away, Matthew? 

Mat. (rises in confusion). What — Grace — why — 
how — what — I beg your pardon. Did you speak? 

Grace. Why, bless me, Matthew, what's the matter? 



37 



Have I interrupted some desperate plot, or some dream 
of love? You really look frightened. 

Mat. Do I? Well, it's very natural. — Xo, I don't 
mean that. Does your father want me? 

Grace. Xo ; but I do. Now, compose yourself, and 
we will talk business. Do you know what day to-mor- 
row is ? 

Mat. Why, it's Wednesday — isn't it? 

Grace. Isn't it ! What a bright business man. To- 
morrow is the anniversary of a very important event. 

Mat. Your birthday ? 

Grace. O, that's not important. To-morrow is the 
anniversary of the entrance of Matthew Allen into busi- 
ness life. 

Mat. And you remember this? 

Grace. Indeed I do, for 'twas the beginning of a very 
happy life for all of us. 'Twas then I formed a dear 
friendship, which has continued until this day. 

Mat. Ah, Grace, it is so kind of you to say it, — you, 
who are so exalted in society, to confess friendship for a 
poor man. 

Grace. Poor man ! I confess no such thing. The 
friendship, I admit, is with a brave fellow, who has bat- 
tled night and day to serve the man who once befriended 
him ; rich in honest worth, noble in every manly accom- 
plishment ; a man with a strong arm and a quick brain, 
who has the right to seek and claim the- highest station, 
or woo and win the highest lady in the land. 

Mat. Grace, Grace ! This to me ? 

Grace. To you, Matthew, for you are the man. To- 
morrow my father makes choice of a partner. AYho it is 



38 my brother's keeper. 

I do not know. He has kept his secret even from me. 
I know not what changes may be made, but you, Mat- 
thew, must leave this place. 

Mat. I leave this place ? You know not what you 
say. I cannot do it. 

Grace. Not do it? Why not? 

Mat. Because I love you, Grace. I have hidden it 
so deep that I thought 'twould never escape me. But I 
must speak. I love you, Grace, dearly, madly, I know. 
Let me stay here. I will still be diligent in business. 
I care not who may come to lord it here ; only let me be 
near you. 

Grace. No, Matthew, you must go. Do you think 
I will allow you, my friend, to be supplanted in this place 
by a stranger. No, Matthew, you have energy and tal- 
ent. Build for yourself. Imitate the example of your 
master, and take a partner. 

Mat. A partner, Grace ? You know not what you 
say. Where could I find a partner with capital, for that 
is what I should need? 

Grace. O, I'll find one for you, never fear ; one who 
will join you in any enterprise — strong, brave, true. 

Mat. Where will you find me such a partner ? 

Grace. Here, Matthew, here, with a capital of ear- 
nest, true love. I will be your partner. 

Mat. Am I dreaming? You, Grace, you? 

Grace. Yes, I ; the woman you have loved so long. 
Ah, Matthew ! we cannot hide it. Try all we may, it 
speaks in the flush of the cheek, the gleam of the eye, 
the trembling speech. You have told me that you loved 
me, and I — I — Well, I am your partner, you know, 
Matthew. 



my brother's keeper. 39 

Mat. Dear, dear Grace ! My partner for life ? 

Grace. For life, Matthew. 

Mat. Then on this hand — 

Grace. No, no, Matthew. The head of the new 
house should have higher aspirations. 

Mat. Grace, you're an angel ! {Puts his arm about 
her waist, and kisses her lips. — Enter, L., Benton, with 
his hat and cane; r., Charley and Rachel. — Grace 
and Matthew separate, look doiun, confused.') 

Mr. B. (aside). So, so ; signed, sealed, and deliv- 
ered. Good, good. 

Rachel. It's a match, Charley. Did you hear that 
smack? 

Chas. Do you think I'm deaf. 'Twas red hot, 
Shellie, red hot ! 

CURTAIN. 



Act 2. Scene. — Same as in Act 1. Dark. Candle 
burning on table, c. Matthew seated at l. of it, his 
hand on Rachel's shoulder. She sits on a box at his 
feet, her arm resting upon his knee. 

Mat. And so, Shellie, you have stolen away from 
your cheerful home, with me to keep vigil in this gloomy 
place. 

Rachel. Yes, brother. Uncle Abe was busy at his 
books, Charley had gone out, and Aunt Betsey was nod- 
ding over her knitting, so I just put on my hat and shawl, 
scampered off, and here I am, to spend an hour with 
you. 



40 my brother's keeper. 

Mat. Ever thoughtful, Sunshine. You well knew 
your bright face would light up the old couuting-room, as 
it has every dark scene in my life. Ah, sister mine, how 
dreary the last seven years would have been without you 
to comfort and console. 

Rachel. Seven years ! Why so it is, and to-morrow, 
to-morrow is the day we celebrate. I declare, I'd almost 
forgotten it. It seems but yesterday that we stood be- 
side the death-bed of our mother. Poor mother ! how 
she must rejoice at our prosperity, for I feel her presence 
always. 

Mat, Yes, sister ; ever near us. Dark was the life 
journey of the best of mothers. Heaven guard us from 
thought or act that might disturb her peace or sully the 
brightness of her pure spirit. 

Rachel. Amen to that, brother. Dear mother ! Can 
I ever forget her last night upon earth. I was alone 
with her. She called me to her. The light fast fading 
from her eyes, her face white as the pillow on which she 
rested, her thin, white hand feebly sought to grasp 
mine ; but still the sweet, patient smile was there. 
" Shellie," she said, — dear, dear mother! — "I am 
going — going to sleep. No more toil, no more trouble 
for me. 'Twill be a long, refreshing sleep. I must not 
repine, yet 'tis hard to leave you to battle with the world. 
And the other, — my boy, your brother, — O, Shellie, 
temptations will be around him. He must work for you 
both. Let him always feel the sunshine of a sister's love. 
Be his helper, his counsellor, his keeper. Sacrifice the 
-dearest wish of your heart, if you can save him from 
the cold world's cruel snares." — Dear, dear mother! 
( Weeps.) 



MY BROTHERS KEEPER. 41 

Mat. Nay, nay, sister, do not weep. She is an angel 
now. Xobly have you fulfilled her last request. Ever 
near me, ever thoughtful of my comfort, ever consoler of 
my dark hours, how much I owe to you. Ah, Sunshine, 
'tis the strong arm that clears the path, but 'tis the gentle 
hand that points the way, revives the failing strength, 
and heals the stinging wounds. You have indeed been 
my keeper. Now dry your eyes, for I want your advice. 
You know we are to have no secrets from each other. 

Rachel. That's the compact. Have you a secret? 

Mat. Yes, indeed ; an important one. I'm in love. 

Rachel. O, that's no secret. 

Mat. Indeed, sharp eyes ! Well, I've another, then. 
I'm engaged. Wish me joy, sister. Grace Benton, the 
rich, beautiful, charming Grace Benton, has promised to 
be my wife. 

Rachel. Well, I declare ! And I suppose you want 
my consent. 

JIat. Your consent? 

Rachel. Certainly, sir. Am I not your guardian? 
Very well, sir ; you shall have it. Bring her to me, and 
I will place my hand on your heads, and " bless you, my 
children," in the most approved manner. O, I'm so glad ! 
But, stop ! she has a father. 

Mat. I am aware of that. Now what shall I do? 
Go to him, confess my love, and ask his consent, or run 
away with her? 

Rachel. Both, of course — that is, one at a time. 
Ask his consent. If he declines the honor of an alliance, 
elope. (Knock outside, r.) Good gracious ! What's 
that? 



42 my brother's keeper. 

Mat. It sounded very much like a knock. Perhaps 
a message ; perhaps some one for you. (Knock repeated.) 
At any rate, I'll soon find out. (Pases ; takes the candle.) 
Keep quiet, Sunshine. I'll be back in a minute. (Exit, r.) 

Rachel (sits in chain*, of table). ]STo secrets from each 
other, and I haven't told him mine. Come here on pur- 
pose too. For I'm in love — engaged. Charley Benton 
has promised to be my wife — no, my husband. Shall I 
ask his father's consent, or run away with him. Dear 
Charley ! he's such a queer fellow. I wonder if a young 
lady ever had a proposal from a man with his arms full 
of dry goods before. It all happened as we were going 
home to-night. " Shellie," said he, " dear Shellie ! " 
And then he squeezed my arm, and dropped a bundle. 
"Plague take these bundles. — Shellie, I love you!" 
Another squeeze, and away went another bundle. I 
thought I should have died with laughter. 

Enter Matthew, r. 

Mat. (places candle on table). A note for me, Shellie. 

Rachel. A note ? From whom ? 

Mat. That's just what I'm going to find out. (Opens 
note.) Hallo ! from Charley ! 

Rachel. From Charley Benton ? 

Mat. Yes. (Reads.) " Dear Mat : I'm in trouble. 
If you don't want me locked up for the night, come to 
Murphy's billiard-hall and rescue the subscriber, Charley 
Benton." What does this mean? 

Rachel. Charley in trouble? 0, Mat, go at once ! 

Mat. I cannot, Shellie. 'Twould cost me my situa- 
tion. I am placed here in trust. Mr. Benton would 



my brother's keeper. 43 

never forgive me should I desert my post. Foolish fel- 
low ! he's always getting into a scrape. 

Rachel. You must get him out of this. Think, Mat, 
'tis his own son. He must not be locked up. 

Mat, I dare not go, Shellie. To leave this place 
would be ruin to me. 

Rachel. To be locked up in a cell would be ruin to 
him. Think of the disgrace. 0, for my sake, brother, 
do go. 

Mat. Your sake, Shellie ? 

Rachel. Yes, mine. I am his promised wife. 

Mat. Shellie ! And you have kept this from me ? 

Rachel. I came here to-night to tell you ; but your 
happiness, of course, took precedence, and I must wait 
to tell mine. You will save him — won't you, Mat? 

Mat. But there's no one to leave here. 

Rachel. Yes, I am here, and you know I'm a famous 
keeper. I'll guard everything while you're away. Xow 
go, that's a good brother. Here's your hat. {Gives him 
hat.) 

Mai. "Well, I'll go, Shellie, for your sake. I don't 
like to leave you here alone. Keep quiet, and do not 
leave the room. (Exit, r.) 

Rachel (sits l. of table. Speaks slowly). Charley in 
trouble ! Won't I pull his ears for him ! What can he 
have done ? Nothing wron^. — He's such a rash fellow ! 
— What's that? How lonesome it is here ! What can I 
do to amuse myself? {Takes booh from table.) " Promis- 
sory Xotes," — that's not very promising reading. (Takes 
up another.) " Bills Payable," — O, that won't pay. 
What's that ? There's somebody at the door. I hear a 



44 my brother's keeper. 

key in the look. Can Mat have returned so soon? 
Hark ! Steps ! and coming this way ! 'Tis not his 
tread ; 'tis stealthy, creeping ! What shall I do ? It 
may be a burglar. O, heavens ! I'll blow out the light. 
{Blows out light.) Who can it be? O, I wish Mat 
was here! What will become of me? I'm shiverino* 
with fear. Let me hide somewhere. {Crouches at end of 
lounge, L.) Nearer, nearer ! I can hear my heart beat. 

Enter Richard, stealthily, r. 

Bich. So, so ! I've tricked the faithful watchman. 
The bait took, and he's off on a bootless errand. Well 
planned, my boy. Now for the key. {Creeps to desk, r.) 

Bachel. Somebody's creeping about the room ! 
Heaven protect me ! 

Bich. {takes hey from lock). All right. Now for the 
gold. {Basses to table, c.) Here's the drawer. The 
key fits. Open sesame ! {Opens drawer.) Here's 
Scrap's shiners. {Takes out hag, locks drawer, creeps 
back to desk, r., and places key as before.) Successful 
burglary ! The gold is in my possession. Mat Allen 
will be suspected, and the partnership blown sky high for 
the present. {At door, r.) I must be off. He'll see 
the trick, and be back — but too late, too late ! The 
treasure's flown. {Exit, R.) 

Bachel {comes forward). Gone! 'Twas a burglar. 
The drawer has been robbed, — robbed in Mat's absence, 
— and I, who should have protected it with my life, 
skulked in a corner like a coward. What shall I do ? 
O, brother, did I counsel you wrong? I'll pursue him 
until help appears, then have him secured. Yes, 'tis the 



my brother's keeper. 45 

only course left. {Creeps to door, r.) Hark ! Gra- 
cious heavens, he is returning for more booty ! Shall I 
raise an alarm ? No, no ; who could hear me ? 'Twould 
be but the signal for my own destruction. O, Mat, Mat, 
why don't you come? (Creeps beech to hiding-place, l.) 

Enter Charley, r., with arms outstretched. Walks 
against table, c. 

Chas. O, crackee ! (Creeps down, r. Walks against 
desk, r.) 0, Gemini ! Well, this is a hard road to 
travel ! I never could have believed it, never. Our Mat 
deserting his post — for it must have been him I saw 
leaving the warehouse. Now where can he have gone? 
It's very lucky I had my key, or my little plot to secure 
the pitcher's badge would have been a dead failure. 
Ah, ha, my good father, I do hate to thwart your plans, 
but what's a fellow to do that has to present a badge, 
and has no badge to present? So I'm going to avail 
myself of your key, which I quite accidentally found in 
your pocket, to open your drawer and secure the badge. 
I wish Mat w r as here, for I could very easily have de- 
fended my action ; but this looks very like burglary. 
However, the renowned pitcher must not be disappointed. 
So here goes. (Goes to table, c, unlocks drawer, takes 
out badge, locks drawer.) There you are, my beauty, 
to make glad the heart of Bob Dyke. Now for the 
Goosenecks. (Crosses to r. of table.) Might as well 
have a smoke as I go down. (Puts cigar in his 
mouth.) Wonder if I can rind a match. (Searches 
pockets.) 

Rachel. What is he doing now ? O, if I could but 



46 my brother's keeper. 

secure the villain ! If I could but get a look at his face, 
that I might know him again ! (Creeps up to table, bach 
L. corner, leans forward anxiously.} 

Chas. I've found one. (Draivs match across table.) 

Rachel. Ah, he strikes a light. Courage, Shellie, 
courage. 

Chas. All right. (When the match is well lighted, 
brings it up to his cigar. ' It illumines his face.) 

Rachel. Gracious heavens ! Charley Benton ! (Falls 
on lounge.) 

Chas. What's that? Rats! rats! (Flings booh, l.) 
" Dead for a ducat." 

QUICK CURTAIN. 



Act 3. Scene. — Parlor in Abel Benton's house. 
Lounge, l. h. corner. Table, c, back. Arm-chair on 
rollers R. of table. Arm-chair on rollers, r. c. Chair 
against wall, near R. entrance. Rachel discovered 
lying on lounge with her face buried in her handker- 
chief. 

Rachel (raising her head and throwing her handkerchief 
across the room). There, I'm just going to put an end 
to this business. All day long I've been lying round, 
making myself wretched, and crying until my eyes ache 
for a miserable — I was just going to say thief. Well, 
he is a thief. He robbed his father's drawer, that's cer- 
tain. I saw him myself. Charley Benton — my Char- 
ley ! — 0, dear ! where's my handkerchief? No, I won't 



my brother's keeper. 47 

drop another tear. He isn't worth it. And I, like a 
little fool, instead of telling Mat all about it, must needs 
lie to shield him. I hadn't the heart to tell my brother, 
when he asked me if anything had happened, — for he 
hadn't found Charley, — that Charley had been there. 
My Charley ! — Where's my handkerchief? No, I won't 
cry. I will keep his secret, but I won't shed another 
tear. I wonder what he took. Uncle Abe is awful 
sober, but he says nothing about a robbery, and Charley 

— I've taken precious good care to keep out of his way 

— I'll have nothing to say to him. It's most time for 
Mat to be back. I dread the meeting. How can I look 
him in the face after deceiving him so ? 

Enter Charley, r. 

Chas. Ah, Shellie, I've caught you at last. Xow, 
you coquettish puss, explain the meaning of this avoid- 
ance of me for a whole day. 

Rachel (rising). Mr. Benton. 

Chas. Hallo ! That's not my name. It's plain 
Charley. 

Rachel Then, plain Charley, you will oblige me by 
keeping your distance, by calling me Miss Allen, and by 
avoiding me, as I shall endeavor to avoid you, in future. 

Chas. Why, Shellie, what's the matter? Last night 
you told me that you loved me. 

Rachel. Last night I thought you worthy of any 
woman's love. I have found out my mistake. 

Chas. But, Shellie, I am all in the dark. 

Rachel. I was ; but a ray of light, just the gleam of 
a match, has wonderfully dispelled the darkness in which 



48 my brother's keeper. 

I was enveloped. You understand - — a match. Hence- 
forth we are strangers. {Exit, l.) 

Chas. A match. It's the worst match ever I took a 
hand in. What does she mean ? Does she mean the 
match we made last night? Is she going to throw it otT 
without a trial? I don't like this, for I love her dearly. 
For her sake, last night, after the presentation, I with- 
drew from the Gooseneck Nine. I must know the cau>o 
of this sudden change. It's some of Aunt Betsey's work, 
perhaps. But I'll know. She's too dear a girl to give 
up without a struggle. 

Enter Scraps, r., in full evening dress, with his basket 
tender his arm. 

Scraps. Here I am, Charley, in full regimentals. 

Chas. Scraps, old fellow ! — I heg your pardon, — 
Job Laytou, Esq. Well", well, it's astonishing what good 
clothes can accomplish. But you don't want that basket. 

Scraps. Hey ? 

Chas. You don't want that basket. It's out of 
place. 

Scraps. Well, I don't know about that. There's 
nothing like having an eye to business. {Picks up) 
Kachel's handkerchief, and puts it in the basket.) 

Chas. Put it in the hall. Sink the shop here. 

Scraps. Just as you say. {Exit, r.) 

Chas. He's a splendid old chap. Now if we could 
only make Aunt Betsey believe so ! He's just the man 
to make her a good husband. I think if we could take 
her by surprise she might accept Scraps, for I don't be- 
lieve she ever had an offer. There's nothing like being 



my brother's KEEPER. 4'3 

quick in these matters ; so I'll briag them together at 

once. 

Enter Scraps, r. 

Scraps. There, I've put it up stairs with my old togs. 
Now, what next? 

Chas. Scraps, you have often said that any favor I 
might ask of you would be freely granted. 

S traps. To be sure I have ; and I say it again. 

Chas. All right. Then I ask you to marry. 

Scraps. Hey? You're on the wrong side. 

is. You're on the wrong side of matrimony, and 
the sooner you change your position the better. I've 
found a wife for you. Follow my instructions and you 
will be a happy man. 

Scraps. Marry! I? 0, come, Charley, none of 
your jokes. "Who'd marry me — an old rag-picker? 

Chas. A poor old rag-picker — with forty thousand 
dollars. 

Scraps. Hush ! Do you want to ruin me? 

Chas. I know where you deposit. 

Scraps. Well, don't tell all you know. Who's the 
lady? 

Chas. Aunt Betsey, the lady you saw at the office. 
O. Scraps, you'd make a splendid uncle. 

Scrcqis. O, but this is all nonsense. She doesn't 
know me ; I've never met her ; we're total strangers ; 
it's absurd, ridiculous. I'm going home. 

5. Xo. you're not ; you're going to meet Aunt 
Betsey to-night ; and take my advice, Scraps, propose at 
once. There's nothing pleases a woman so well as an 
energetic lover. 
4 



50 my brother's keeper. 

Scraps. But, Charley, I don't know how. 

Chas. It's easy enough. Tell her you've long ad- 
mired her ; you have heard of her sweet disposition, her 
amiable qualities. 

Scraps. But I can't, Charley. I should be sure to 
make a mess of it. 

Chas. O, it's easy enough. Here's the programme : 
I introduce you — " Miss Benton, Mr. Layton, a gentle- 
man who has called on particular business." I leave you 
alone. You bow ; offer her a chair ; take one yourself. 
A short pause. You speak. " Madam, 'tis a beautiful 
evening." She answers, " Delightful, sir." Then you, 
with a sigh, — don't forget that, — "But this trait of 
Nature is not confined to the weather alone. Some 
women " — emphasize the some — " resemble it." She 
sighs, blushes, and says, u Ah me." You speak quick. 
" You have unconsciously spoken my thoughts. 'Tis you, 
indeed," — clasp your hands, — " on whom my thoughts 
are fixed. Why have you so long remained single? 
Your attractive appearance, your graceful carriage, your 
classic face, your coal-black hair — " 

Scraps. Hold on, Charley. That's too much. The 
beautiful evening, and ah me, and the sighs, are all very 
well, but the carriages, the coals, and all that, are too 
much. 

Chas. O, these are merely complimentary epithets. 
You can number them : one, attractive appearance ; two, 
graceful carriage ; three, classic face ; four, coal-black 
hair ; five, amiable temper. 

Scraps (counting his fingers). One, attractive appear- 
ance ; two, graceful carriage, — all right, I'll keep tally 
on my fingers. What next ? 



my brother's keeper. 51 

Chas. The rest you must leave to inspiration, for 
here she comes. Tell her you adore her, and throw 
yourself on your knees, beg her to bestow her hand — 
Here she is. 

Scraps. But, Charley, I shall make a mess, I know I 
shall. 

Enter Betsey, r. 

Betsey \ Well, I never. There's that front door stand- 
ing wide open, and the coal bin just as fall as it can be, 
too, and Abel away at this time of night, and Mr. John- 
son standin in his front yard a smokin a nasty pipe. If 
there's anything I detest, it's a pipe. When Abel had 
them gas pipes put in, I told him jest how it would be, 
though what that's got to do with smokin tobacco the 
Lord only knows. Why, here's Charley, and a strange 
man, too. Wonder if he wiped his feet. 

Chas. Good evening, Aunt Betsey. This is my friend, 
my wealthy friend. Miss Benton, Mr. Job Layton. 

Betsey. How do you do, Mr. Job Layton ? 'Pears to 
me I've heard one of them names afore. Layton ! Why, 
bless me, there was a family of Laytons lived right oppo- 
site us — poor as puddock, too. Any relation of that 
tribe ? 

Chas. 0, no ; Mr. Layton is descended from a very 
aristocratic family, of very ancient origin. 

Betsey. Biblical, pr'aps. There was a Layton in my 
family Bible. — Xo, 'twan't, nuther ; 'twas Job, the man 
who had so many blisters. Pr'aps he was one of your 
family. 

Chas. Aunt Betsey, Mr. Layton has a very delicate 



52 my brother's keeper. 

matter to bring to your attention. He wishes to consult 
you on a subject that lies near his heart. 

Betsey. What's the matter with him? Hope 'tain't 
neurology or rheumatics. That's always fatal when it 
affects the heart. What's his symptoms? 

Chas. I'll leave him to explain. Treat him kindly, 
for he is one of the best of men. 

Betsey. Is he? Well, so are they all, till they're 
found out. There was Judith Higborn's husband. Why, 
folks thought butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, he was 
so meek, till Judith sent him one day to the milliner for 
her bunnet, and that was the last ever seen of the hus- 
band, or the milliner, or the bunnet. Spring bunnet, too, 
wuth ten dollars. 

Chas. Well, listen to his complaint, and remember 
he has my recommendation as an excellent husband. 
(Exit, R.) 

Betsey (aside). Husband? Whose, I wonder? He 
don't look very bright. Well, Mr. Lay ton, what's your 
symptoms? (Scraps bows, wheels chair down from C, 
and boius, motioning Betsey to be seated.) Thank you. 
(Sits.) Well, he's perlite, anyhow. (Scraps goes to r., 
ivheels down chair r. of Betsey.) What a draft from 
that door ! Guess I'll take the other chair. (Moves into 
chair placed by Scraps.) 

Scraps. Hey? She's on the wrong side. That won't 
do. I can't hear a word. (Passes behind Betsey, takes 
the chair at her l., and wheels it round to her r.) 

Betsey. Law sakes, you needn't have troubled your- 
self. (Moves to the other chair.) That was just as com- 
fortable, just as comfortable. 



53 



Scraps (looking at her). It's no use. I can't hear a 
word there. (Is about to move the vacant chair, as he- 
fore.) 

Betsey. What ails the man? Stop ! stop ! Sit down. 
(Scraps looks at her, then sits.) Something the matter 
with his heart ? I should think 'twas his head. Now, 
then, what's the symptoms? 

Scraps. I can't hear a word. (A short pause. — 
They look at each other.) Madam, it's a delightful 
evening. 

Betsey. Delightful evening ! The man's a lunatic : 
I know it. Why, it's raining cats and clogs. The mud 
is twelve inches deep. It's horrid, horrid ! 

Scraps (aside). Don't hear a word. (Aloud.) But 
this freak of nature is not confined to the weather alone ; 
some women are just like it. 

Betsey. Now, w^hat does he mean by that? Some 
women are horrid ! Does he mean me ? 

Scraps (aside). She spoke, but I heard nothing. 
(Aloud.) Yes, you have unconsciously spoken my 
thought. 'Tis you, indeed. 

Betsey. What ? O, the man's a lunatic ; he cer- 
tainly is. He ought to be put in a strait thimajig at 
once. 

Scraps (aside). What comes next? Single, single. 
(Aloud.) No wonder you have remained single so 
long. 

Betsey. The sarcastic wretch. 

Scraps (aside). So far, so good. Now then. (Counts 
Ids fingers.) One, appearance — (Aloud.) Your ven- 
erable appearance — 



54 my brother's keeper. 

Betsey, 0, the wretch ! And he old enough to be my 
father. 

Scraps {counts Ms fingers. — Aside). Two, form — 
(Aloud.) Your antique form — 

Betsey. 0, I'd like to strangle him ! 

Scraps (counting. — Aside). Three, face — (Aloud.) 
Your coal-black face — 

Betsey. 0, Charley Benton, you shall pay for this. 

Scraps (counting. — Aside). Four, hair — (Aloud.) 
Your more antique hair — 

Betsey. The man's a fool. 

Scraps (counting. — Aside). Five, temper — (Aloud.) 
Your versatile temper — 

Betsey. Stop, stop, I say ! You've said quite enough. 
(Rises.) 

Scraps. Hey? (Aside.) What next? (Aloud.) 
You are dying for me, or I am for you, it don't make 
much difference. (Falls on his knees.) Behold me at 
your feet. Bestow upon me your hand. — " If ever I 
cease to love — " 

Betsey. I will ; there. (Boxes his ears, first rights then 
left.) There ! You're a fool, or a lunatic. If you ever 
show your face here again I'll scratch your eyes out, 
you mean, contemptible old ragamuffin. You jest make 
yourself scarce, or I'll have the police after you. Come 
here again, and I'll have a boiler of hot water ready, 
and use it, too. Venerable, indeed ! You old idiot ! 
(Exit, R.) 

Scraps. Evidently not a success. Well, I'm glad of 
it. I've made a fool of myself to please the boy. I 
don't know what she said, but I'm on the wrong side. 
(Rises.) 



my brother's keeper. 55 

Enter Mr. Benton, r. 

Mr. B. Ah, Job, you're the very man I wanted. But 
how's this? Here iu my house, and dressed so fine! 
"What is the meaning of this? 

Scraps. O, it's one of Charley's jokes. He wanted 
to bring me out in society. (Aside.) And he has, with 
a vengeance. 

Mr. B. Well, I'm glad to see you. But listen. Your 
money is gone. 

Scraps. Has it? Well, I'm not surprised. 

3Tr. B. You will be when you learn w r ho took it. 
'Twas Matthew Allen. 

Scraps. You're mistaken. 'Twas the other. 

Mr. B. What other ? 

Scraps. Hichard Carnes. 

Mr. B. Xo, Job, 'twas Matthew. Of that I am sure. 
He was left in charge of the office. He was seen in Mur- 
phy's billiard-room at nine o'clock. I'm sure. When 
I found the money gone this morning, I put a detective 
upon his track. There can be no mistake. It is Mat- 
thew Allen. 

Scraps. I don't believe it. If forty detectives were 
oh his track, if a thousand circumstances conspired to 
point out Matthew Allen as the thief, I would doubt all 
but his honesty. 

Mr. B. Bah ! Job, you're too credulous. He has 
been false to his trust. Against my express orders, he 
left my store last night ; and should he ever return, I 
will discharge him from my employ. 

Scraps. Don't be hasty, Abel. Give the lad a chance. 



56 my brother's keeper. 

He has served 'you well. Even if he were guilty, you 
should be merciful. 

Mr. B. Merciful to a thief? How do I know but 
what he has robbed me before? No, he shall be pun- 
ished. 

Scraps. Bah ! You'll have to beg his pardon for sus- 
pecting him. Abel, keep cool. Wait till the real thief 
shows his hand. 

Mr. B. He has shown it now. No, no, Job, you like 
the lad, and would save him if you could ; but depend 
upon it (Enter Rachel, r.) the thief who stole your 
money was Matthew Allen. (Exit, l.) 

Rachel. O, what do I hear ? Matthew suspected ! 
No, no, it cannot be. Mr. Lay ton (comes doivn r. of 
Scraps), what did he say? What did he say? 'Whom 
does he suspect? 

Scraps (aside). His sister ! 'Twould break her heart. 
(Aloud.) Hey? You're on the wrong side. (Crosses 
to r.) I'll go and change this toggery, for I don't feel 
easy. (Exit, r.) 

Bachel. Brother Mat suspected ! O, I never thought 
of that. But I can clear him, I can clear him. But 
how? By denouncing Charley, my Charley, that I love 
so dearly? 0, I can never do that. Perhaps he wanted 
the money for some special service. Perhaps — O, why 
should I try to excuse so base a deed ? O, would that I 
were dead ! If I betray Charley, his father will drive 
him from the house, and I should never see him again. 
And, spite of his crime, I love him so dearly! But my 
brother ! He must not suffer for the crime of another, 
nor will he, for they have no proof. And Charley ; he 



57 

would curse me should I betray him. O, what shall I 
do ! (Falls on her knees by sofa.) O, mother, saiuted 
mother ! if you watch over your child, guide her in this 
dark hour. {Buries her head in sofa, weeping.) 

Enter Richard, r. 

Rich. Ah, Shellie ! at your devotions. (Rachel 
rises suddenly.) Don't let me disturb you. Where are 
all the good people ? 

Rachel. Good evening, Mr. Carnes. Take a seat. 
Grace and my aunt will soon appear. 

Rich. Thank you. (Sits l. of table. Rachel on 
lounge.) Has Mat returned yet? 

Rachel. No, we are expecting him every moment. I 
am sorry he could not arrive sooner. 

Rich, (aside). So am I. I expected to find his coat 
hanging in the hall. Old Scraps's money-bag is heavy 
in my pocket and on my conscience. I must get it dis- 
posed of somewhere about Mat's wardrobe. (Aloud.) 
Where's Charley, Shellie? 

Rachel. I don't know. 

Enter Charley, r. 

Chas. Nor does she care, Dick. I'm glad to see you. 
Do you feel better, Shellie ? 

Rachel (turns her bach). No, I don't feel better. 

Ch as. Then we must get Aunt Betsey to prescribe 
for you. (Enter Betsey.) Here, Aunt Betsey, is 
another patient for you. Come, Shellie, tell her your 
symptoms. 

Betsey. Symptoms ! Well, if they're anything like 



58 my brother's keeper. 

those of the last patient you found for me, I prescribe a 
lunatic asylum at once. How do you do, Mr. Carnes ? 

Rich. Good evening, Miss Benton. How becomingly 
you are dressed this evening ! Your stately person — 

Betsey. Now don't you be a fool. I've heard enough 
allusion to my personal appearance this evening already 
to make me sick. (Sits r. of table.) 

Chas. (aside). Hullo ! Scraps must have made a 
failure. (Aloud.) Did you comfort my friend, Mr. 
Layton, Aunt Betsey? 

Betsey. You just bring him here again, that's all. 

Enter Grace, l. 

Grace. Shellie, Shellie, Matthew's come. I heard 
his step on the walk — and I should know it. (Stops 
confused.) Why, I didn't know we had company. Good 
evening, Mr. Carnes. 

Rich. Good evening, Miss Benton. 

Grace (aside). Tiresome thing! Just spoiled my 
meeting Matthew in the hall. (Aloud.) Shellie, why 
don't you run and meet Matthew? 

Rachel. My head aches fearfully. (Aside.) How 
can I meet him ? 

Betsey. Land sakes ! He knows the way from cellar 
to garret. 

Enter Matthew, r., with coat on his arm, which he 
throws across chair, R. 

Mat. Ah, here you all are. Home again, as you see. 
Grace (running to him). Matthew, welcome ! 
Mat. Thank you, my dear (pause), dear friend. 
(Takes her hand.) 



MY BROTHER'S KEEPER. 59 

Grace. Well, what success? 

Mat. The best of success. The cargo of the Elmyra 
is sold. {Enter Mr. Benton, l.) Good evening, Mr. 
Benton. I was just telling your daughter my mission was 
successful. The cargo of the Elmyra has been taken. 

Mr. B. Indeed. Do you know of anything else that 
has been taken, Mr. Allen? 

Mat (surprised). Mr. Allen? To what do you allude, 
Mr. Benton? 

Mr. B. Matthew Allen, as you well know, I am a 
man of very few words. Last night you were left in 
charge of my warehouse. During the night a bag of 
gold, placed in a drawer for safe keeping, was abstracted. 
Where is it? 

Mat. A bag of gold, belonging to Job Lay ton, stolen ? 
I know nothing about it. 

Rachel (aside). Why don't Charley speak? (Char- 
let is in conversation with Aunt Betsey.) 

Mr. B. This is strange. You were left in charge of 
the warehouse. Did you leave it during the night? 

Mat. I did. 

Mr. B. Where did you go ? 

Mat. That, sir, I cannot tell. I received a note late 
in the evening from a friend, calling upon me as a friend 
to assist him. That is all I can say. It remains for 
him to clear the mystery. 

Rachel (aside). O, why don't Charley speak? One 
word from him, and Matthew is clear. 

Mr. B. So, sir, you cannot clear the mystery ; but I 
can. You left that place to go to Murphy's billiard- 
room. You were seen there. This money was left in 



60 my brother's keeper. 

your charge. You alone were responsible for it ; and I 
charge you with the theft. 

Mat. Mr. Benton ! 

Grace. Father ! 

Rachel {aside). And there Charley sits as cool as a 
villain. Why don't he speak? 

Mr. B. Yes, Matthew Allen, I have trusted you 
fully.' I have believed in your truth and honesty; but 
the very fact that you quitted that store is proof positive 
of your guilt. 

Mat. Mr. Benton, all I have in the world I owe to 
you. I believe I have not been ungrateful for your kind- 
ness. Had I done the base deed of which you accuse 
me, I could not look you in the face, as I do now, and 
pronounce your charge false. 

Rachel {jumping up.) Charley Benton, do you hear? 
Why don't you speak ? 

Ghas. I beg your pardon, Shellie. What's broke? 
I've been having a talk with Aunt Betsey. 

Rachel. Mat, my brother Matthew, is accused of 
theft — by your father, too. 

Ghas. That's a serious matter. I say, father, what 
is it? 

Mr. B. Nothing that should be made public. Mat- 
thew Allen is about to quit my service disgraced. 

Mat. Disgraced ? 

Mr. B. Yes, disgraced ! Everything is against you 
— your absence from the store, the empty drawer, the 
missing money-bag — 

Ghas. {aside). Drawer, store, money-bag! {Aloud.) 
I say, Shellie, what's all this ? 



my brother's keeper. CI 

Rachel. And you ask me? Shame, shame, Charley 
Benton. 

Chas. Well, confound it ! If you won't tell me what 
it's all about, you'll excuse me if I don't interfere. (Re- 
tires up.) 

Mr. B. (to Matthew). There is not one circumstance 
in your favor. 

Grace. Father, you are wrong. There are a thousand : 
his good, true life ; his zeal in your service ; his care for 
his sister ; — all stand out to shield him from suspicion. 

Mr. B. You, Grace, defend him? 

Grace. With my life, if need be. I know him to be 
so good, so true, so noble, that when you turn him from 
your door, my arm shall be around him, and my voice 
shall whisper in his ear, " Whither thou goest I go." 

Mat. Dear, dear Grace ! 

Rachel (aside). Must I learn my duty from her. 

Mr. B. Never ! JSTo daughter of mine shall link her 
fate with a felon — a thief ! 

Grace. A thief? 'Tis false ! 

Rachel. Ay, false, false ! And I can prove it. 

All. You, Shellie? (Aunt Betsey comes down, l. 
Situations : Matthew, r., Grace, r. c, Rachel, c, 
Mr. Benton, l. c, Aunt Betsey, l., Charley and 
Richard bach by the table, looking on.) 

Rachel. Yes, I ; for I was in the counting-room when 
that money was taken. My brother is guiltless. He 
was called to help a friend, as he tells you. I was left 
alone. I heard a step ; blew out the candle. The thief 
entered, opened the drawer in the table, moved away, 
and then returned and made a second attempt. I was so 
frightened that I did not tell my brother. 



62 my brother's keeper. 

Mat. That was wrong, Shellie. 

Rachel. I know it, brother. I have deceived you, 
and am no more worthy to be called your keeper. But 
you shall be cleared. ( With feeling.) Uncle Abe, sup- 
pose a young girl had a brother, whom she loved very 
dearly ; a brother, whom she had told her dying mother, 
should never suffer, when any sacrifice could be made on 
her part. Suppose she also had a lover, whom she loved 
very dearly, — very, very dearly, — and she were called 
upon to sacrifice one or the other, who had committed a 
crime, what should you advise to do ? 

Mr. B. Save the innocent — if it broke her heart. 

Rachel. Right, Uncle Abe ; you are right, sir. Lis- 
ten, then. Last night, when that thief came in for the 
second time, I was on the alert. After he had accom- 
plished his purpose, he struck a match, and as he held it 
up to light a cigar, I saw his face. 

Mat. His face, Shellie ? Did you know him ? 

Rachel. Know him? (Throws herself into his arms.) 
Too well, too well. 'Twas him. (Pointing.) Charley 
Benton. 

All. Charley Benton ! (All fall back, showing Char- 
ley coolly seated on the table with his amis folded.) 

Chas. Well, what of it? I was in the store last 
night, did open the the drawer, and take from it — 

Mr. B. The bag of gold? 

Chas. (coming down.) No, sir, the pitcher's badge, 
which you so unceremoniously locked up for me. 

Mr. B. But the money? 

Chas. I know nothing about it. There was none 
there when I took the badge, that's certain. 



MY BROTHER'S KEEFER. 63 

Mat. So, Charley, your note to me was a blind to get 
me from the store. 

Chas. What note? I sent no note. Hang it, what 
a mysterious time you are having here ! Who's the rob- 
ber, anyhow ? 

Mat. I received a note signed with the name of Char- 
ley Benton. Here it is. I thought it my duty to leave 
the store, as I had left my sister in charge, 

Chas. And Shellie caught the thief? 

Rachel. Stop, Charley. Did you take the badge the 
first or second time you entered the room? 

Chas. Hang it, Shellie, are you beginning to be 
suspicious? I entered the store but once. 

Rachel. And found nothing in the drawer but the 
badge ? 

Chas. Not a thing. 

Rachel. Then there was another. 

Rich, (aside). I wish I was well rid of this bag. 
There's Mat's coat in the chair. I can easily slip it into 
the pocket, and then I'm safe. 

3Tr. B. Yes, there was another ; and that other your 
brother. 

Grace. Still suspicious, father. 

Mr. B. Still suspicious ; and, until the thief is found, 
you, Matthew Allen, are suspended from service. 

Mat. This is very hard, Mr. Benton. 

Mr. B. You should not have left that store had fifty 
notes been sent you. Had the building been in flames 
you should not have disobeyed my orders. 

Rich, (who has crept over to chair, r. Aside). Now, 
then, to fasten his guilt. 



64 my brother's keeper. 

Mat. Very well, sir. I have tried to do my duty. 
If I have failed, ruy heart, rny conscience acquits me of 
blame or guilt. 

Hick, {takes money-bag from his breast pocket. Aside). 
All right. Now, then. (About to place it in Matthew's 
coat pocket. Scraps enters suddenly , R., in his old cos- 
tume, his basket in both hands.) 

Scrajjs. Hey? (Holds out basket. Richard starts 
back, and drops the bag into basket.) You're on the 
wrong side, Mr. Carnes, the wrong side. 

Mr. B. Job Layton, what are you doing? 

Scraps. Recovering my money. Here it is. (Comes 
down, c.) Here is the money (showing basket), and here 
the thief. (Seizing Richard by wrist.) 

Mr. B. Richard Carnes? You are mistaken, Job. 

Scraps. Now don't be a fool, Abel. I knew when I 
placed that money in your hands it would be found in the 
possession of Richard Carnes. He's a notorious gambler ; 
that I know. He frequents Murphy's billiard-rooms ; he 
was there last night ; wrote a note to Matthew Allen, 
and sent it to the store last night ; then entered the store 
with a false key — O, I know him ! I've proof enough 
that he committed this theft to put him in prison, and he 
knows it. Hey, Mr. Carnes ? 

Mr. B. Richard Carnes, what have you to say? 

Bich. Nothing : if you take the word of that raga- 
muffin, I am a thief; but this little affair was arranged 
for an entirely different purpose. It has failed, and I am 
the loser. I am a gentleman's son ; my father will make 
all losses good. As for the business, I have grown tired 
of it, and want a change ; so, with your permission, I will 



my brother's keeper. Go 

throw up my situation. If I am wanted, you will find 
me at home. I shall not run away. Good evening, Mr. 
Benton ; good evening, all. (At door, r.) A cursed 
stupid mess I've made of it. (Exit, R.) 

Scrajos. Well, that's cool. 

Chas. Decidedly. Shall I stop him, father? 

Mr. B. No ; let him go. If he feels one half the 
shame I feel for my share in this business, he is suffi- 
ciently punished. (Crosses to Matthew.) Matthew, I 
beg your pardon. I have been hasty. Knowing your 
worth, I should have cut my tongue out ere I made the 
charge I did. 

Mat. Let it pass, Mr. Benton. Circumstances were 
against me. I should not have left your store ; and the 
fear of compromising your son kept me silent. 

Mr. B. And you (to Charley), what have you to say 
for your share in this ? 

Chas. Me? Well, I like that! It strikes me I'm 
the martyr — suspected of being a thief, and by Shellie, 
too. 

Rachel. Charley, forgive me. I thought I was 
right. It was my brother — 

Chas. O, well, if a brother is to stand between you. 
and me, the sooner I claim the privileges of a husband 
the better. 

Betsey. Shellie, that man in the ragged coat ! Bless 
my soul, it's him — the man that saved me from the run- 
away horse. 

Rachel. Why, so it is. Strange I should not have 
recognized him. 

Betsey. Who is he? What's his name? 
4 



6Q MX brother's keeper. 

Chas. Why, don't you know? That's Job Layton, 
Esq. 

Betsey. "What, the lunatic? Well, if I'd have known 
he was my preserver — Mr. Layton, Mr. Layton? 

Scrajjs. Hey? You're on the wrong side. {Turns 
his back to her.) 

Chas. It's no use, Aunt Betsey. You've lost your 
chance. 

Grace. And now, father, where is the new partner 
you were to present this evening ? 

Mr. B. He is here. {Places his hand on Matthew's 
shoulder.) Matthew Allen, for your long service, for 
your true, earnest zeal, for your honesty and value, I 
offer you a partnership. 

Mat. Me? O, Mr. Benton, you are my best friend, 
but I cannot accept. 

Mr. B. Xot accept? 

Mat. No, sir, for I have already formed a partner- 
ship with another — this dear girl. 

Grace. Yes, father, we have formed a partnership for 
life. 

Mr. B. I see ; and, though I have not been asked, I 
will give my consent. Have your partner, but he must 
also be mine, under the firm of Abel Benton & Son. 

Chas. Well, it strikes me I shall be left out in the 
cold. 

Mr. B. Your turn shall come next, with Matthew's 
consent. 

Mat Anything you wish, sir. 

Rachel. But what's to become of me ? 

Chas. Now don't you fret about that, Shellie. Grace 



my brother's keeper. G7 

is going into the new firm. Let's you aud I form an op- 
position. 

Rachel. And so Miss Grace is to usurp ray place. 
Well, I suppose I must bear it. 

Scraps. Shellie, that scamp of a Charley wants a 
keeper. I know him. Pie's a rascal — jumps into the 
water, you know. Marry him, aud watch him. 

Rachel. What do you say. Uncle Abe? 

Mr. B. You have my full consent. 

Rachel. And you, brother Mat? 

Mat. I know no one more worthy of my dear sister 
than Charley Benton. 

Rachel. There's my hand, Charley. And as I have 
tried to be true to my brother, so may I be true to you. 
If I have failed in my duty there, it was for love of you. 

Mat. Nay 3 nay, Sunshine ; you have been ever true. 
The happiness of this hour I owe to you alone. 

Rachel. Say, rather, to our dear, trusty, watchful old 
rag-picker. 

Scraps. Hey? You're on the wrong side. Earthly 
friends may do much to guide and guard each other, but 
Justice, Love, and Truth are servants of a higher Power, 
who, in the darkest hour, is ever the sure, safe, reliant 
keeper. 

Disposition of Characters. 

R. C. L. 

Scraps. 
Grace. Charley. 

Matthew. Rachel. 

Mr. Benton. Betsey. 



THE REVOLT OF THE BEES. 



AN ALLEGORY. 



FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY. 



CHARACTERS. 

Regina, Queen of the Bees. 

Thriftie, Gaylie, Leaders of the Working Bees. 
Trusta, Wakna, Guardians of the Hive. 
Goldweng, Brighthue, Varia, Spotila, Butterflies. 

This allegory is particularly designed for school exhibi- 
tions. Choruses should be seated on the platform, R. 
and L. An open stage should be left between the 
speakers. 

Scene. — Exterior of the Hive. Bank, c. 

{Invisible Chorus. Air, u Up I Aivay ! ") 

Ho, Awake ! Ho, Awake ! Ho, Awake ! All ye dwellers in 

the hive, 
Away let us speed, for the day is alive. 
How freely the flowers are opening their cups, 
How glisten the dewdrops each greedily sups ! 

69 



70 THE REVOLT OF THE BEES. 

The fairest and brightest yield sweets as we strive 
With treasures of honey to fill up the hive. 
Labor gives high delight, delight beyond all measure, 
Our hive we love so well we'll fill with sweetest treasure ; 
Labor gives high delight, delight be} T ond all measure ; 
0, high delight, the hive we love to fill. 

Enter, l., Wakna, r., Trusta. 

Warna. Hark to those welcome sounds : our vigils o'er, 
The hum of labor stirs the hive once more ; 
Sweet sister Trusta, in your nightly round, 
Hath ought suspicious or uncouth been found? 

Trusta. Kay, nay, good Warna, 'twas a quiet night ; 
Nought but the moon hath crossed my weary sight. 
Ah me ! 'tis very hard to keep awake 
While our companions of sweet sleep partake. 
What should we fear? What need of guarding thus? 
Who'd care or dare to interfere with us ? 

Warna. *Tis an old custom, Trusta, a bee law, 
In which our tribe has never found a flaw ; 
Our code of government is very wise, 
And ancient as the orbs that rule the skies ; 
One rules — our gracious queen ; the rest obey ; 
Some forth in search of honey daily stray, 
Some mould the cells within our tasty hive, 
Some store our treasure, some with burdens strive, 
Awhile others guard with jealous care the way, 
That no unbidden guest may hither stray. 
Each has a task, and all together strive 
With fruits of " Industry" to store the hive, 
And keep its motto bright above the door. 
No laggards here, where all should work and store. 



THE REVOLT OF TIIE BEES. 71 

Trusta. To work and store. For what? When all's 
complete, 
Rough-handed men assail our calm retreat, 
Disturb our labors, and our workers slay, 
Ritle our cells, our treasures bear away. 
If this is Industry's reward for toil, 
Surely our labor's not repaid by spoil. 

Warna. Trusta, your long night vigil makes you wild. 
Why, this is treason, rank rebellion, child. 
Should your bold words but reach the royal ear, 
You'd be disgraced by punishment severe. 
I marvel at this rude, complaining mood 
In one who hitherto so fair hath stood. 

Trusta. Well, marvels never cease, the wise ones say. 
J marvel, Warna, that we never play 
Among the flowers, as yonder sportive flies, 
Bent to no tasks, on airy pinions rise ; 
Dance, race, and flutter, in the summer air, 
Making a pastime where we find a care. 

Warna-. Hush, foolish Trusta ; hither comes our 
queen ; 
Meet her with welcome voice and face serene ; 
Let not the idle fancies of your brain 
Lead you in word or act to give her pain. 

(Chorus. Air," Up! Away!" as before.) 
Enter, r., Theiftie and Regixa. 

Regina, Once more a brilliant morning gilds our hive ; 
The Avoods with earlv songsters are alive ; 
The grateful incense of a thousand flowers, 
"Borne on the gentle breeze in unseen showers, 



72 THE REVOLT OF THE BEES. 

Invites our happy tribe, with quickening zest, 
To favor gayly labor's just behest. 
Forth to your tasks, my subjects ; boldly beat 
The choicest flower for its hidden sweet. 
You, Thriftie, our most tried aud trusty guide, 
Shall lead your column to yon mountain side, 
The fabled home of many a wondrous flower, 
Endowed with sweets of pungency and power ; 
You, Warna, still stand guardian at the door ; 
You, Trusta, hold your station as before. 
Anon we'll change the guards ; till then beware 
None enter here, to trap us unaware. 

Thriftie. Thanks, thanks, my queen : with confidence 
elate, 
My swift-winged followers, all-impatient, wait 
The call to duty. Gladly to obey 
Thy lightest wish, we eager haste away. 
Proud of thy favor, ere the sun's retreat, 
We'll lay the choicest treasures at thy feet. \_Exit, R. 

Queen. Ay, zealous Thriftie, thy true, loyal heart 
Can life and grace to any task impart. 
Loving strong labor for the good it brings, 
All toils are light where cheerfulness lends wings. 

Enter, R., Gatlie, slowly. 

What ! laggards here? Gaylie, this sluggish pace 
Befits no leader of our active race. 

Gaylie. I'm weary, gracious queen, of so much 
work, 
And long this day's accustomed task to shirk : 
From morn till night 'tis work. I fain would rest 



THE REVOLT OF THE BEES. 73 

A little while within my cosy nest. 
Or. parted from the toilers of to-day, 
Lightly for pleasure o'er the meadows stray. 

Queen. Gay lie. no more : you know not what you ask. 
Pleasure alone comes with a finished task ; 
Bank idleness is but a torturing pest, 
Goading to sin. the mockery of rest ; 
Crush out at once the feverish desire, 
And to some more exalted state aspire. 
This be your task : o'er yonder field of clover, 
With those you lead, upon the instant hover ; 
Gather the sweets that there in richness lie, 
And with your burdens to our mansion hie ; 
Xo more complaining, and no more delay, 
Arrange your force at once. Away ! Away ! 

[Exit Gatlie, r. 
Xow. guardians of the hive, be wise and wary, 
Pass none within save those who burdens carry. [Exit, r. 

Wdrna. Trusta. you see that Gaylie's idle mien 
Hath found no favor with our gracious queen. 

Trusta. Yet. I confess, her weakness hath a charm 
My pulse to quicken and my bosom warm. 

(Invisible Chorus. u Boating Song") 

Gayly our pinions swift bear us along, 
O'er the green meadows our flight we prolong. 
Freely and lightly we skim the still air, 
Eealm of the butterflies, heart free from care. 
Brightly are gleaming our wings as we fly, 
Gay is the life of the free butterfly ; 
Brightly are gleaming cur wings as we fly, 
Gav is the life of the free butterfly. 



74 THE REVOLT OF THE BEES. 

Trusta. Listen ; the butterflies are on the wing ; 
They have ho task to check life's joyous spring. \_Exit, R. 

Warna. An idle tribe, who all unthrifty roam, 
The gypsies of the field, no care, no home. \_Exit, l. 

(Chorus. " Boating Song" repeated, during which enter, 
r., Goldwing and Varia, l., Brighthue and 
Spotila.) 

Gold. Good morning, sisters of the sportive wing. 
What gay report of frolic do you bring ? 

Bright. Goldwing, kind Nature ne'er made morn like 
this. 
My early flight was one full draught of bliss ; 
O'er waving corn, through fields of new-mown hay, 
Up flowery banks, triumphant was my way ; 
Light as the fleecy clouds, as free from care, 
I sped, a careless rover of the air. 

Spotila. My flight was on the bosom of the stream, 
Sparkling with diamonds from the sun's first beam. 
Forward and backward did I dancing go, 
Chasing my shadow in the depths below. 

Varia. I sailed on easy wing to yonder peak, 
The god of day's first welcome kiss to seek ; 
There danced I in the splendor of his rays, 
Amid the trees with golden tints ablaze. 

Gold. A morn of pure delight you well have told. 
Listen while I my wanderings unfold ; 
Hiding awhile beneath a dewy rose 
Which in yon garden gloriously grows, 
A fair-haired child, with merry, dancing eyes, 
Peered in upon me in a glad surprise ; 



THE REVOLT OF THE BEES. 75 

With wily hand, to covetous embrace 

He sought to snatch me from my hiding-place. 

But all in vain ; my airy wings outspread, 

Awhile I hovered o'er his golden head, 

Then led him on a merry, dancing race 

To many a nook and corner of the place. 

Till quite o'erpowered, and mourning at his loss, 

He sank to sleep upon a bed of moss. 

Bright, Golclwing, you are a wicked, teasing sprite. 

Yaria. To tempt and tease was always her delight. 

Spot. This new adventure gives me no surprise ; 
Mischief has built its nest in Goldwing's eyes. 

Gold. Right, right, fair Spotila ; to frolic free 
In field or woodland is the life for me. 
Hearken, sweet Brighthue ; here, amid the trees, 
There is a busy hive of honey bees, 
"Who earnest labor through the livelong day, 
Spending no time in frolic or in play ; 
Graut me your aid, and from the weary task, 
I'll lure them to the fields wherein we bask, 
Teach them to sport and flutter in the breeze, 
To race and chase amid the flowers and trees, 
Disclose the glorious powers which we enjoy, 
Pleasure and sunshine with no base alloy. 

Bright. I'm with you, heart and hand, my- joyous 
sprite ; 
'Twill to our pleasures add a new delight. 

Yaria. 'Twill cause a hubbub in the busy hive, 
Should you succeed in that for which you strive. 

Gold. For that we care not ; only lend your aid 
Till of the leader I've a captive made. 



76 THE REVOLT OF THE BEES. 

The rest will follow to the fields anon c 
Silence ! stand close ; the bees are moving on. 

\_They retire to L. 

(Chorus. u Hunting Song" during which enter Thriftie 
and her Attendants, R.) 

On airy wing, with busy hum, 
Blithely to work we come, 
For sweets to store the home. 
The worker loves to roam 
Where birds are singing, 
So far, so near. So far, so near, 
Where flowers bright upspringing 
Bestow their treasures dear. 

Gold. Whither so fast, fair friends ? 

Thriftie. To yonder hill, 

Seeking for treasures our fair hive to fill. 

Gold. The day is warm ; the labor hard to wrest 
The honey sweets from out the thorny breast. 
Leave toil and care awhile, and freely stroll, 
Light-winged, across yon green and grassy knoll. 

Bright. I challenge thee to try thy pinions' flight 
In a wild race to yonder crowned height. 

Spot. I dare you to a race o'er yonder plain. 

Varia. Thy speed 'gainst mine, yon silvery stream to 
gain. 

Thriftie. Nay, nay, good friends ; my queen our task 
has set, 
And at my call my train have early met. 
With grateful thanks, we must decline to play, 
When duty calls for work another way. 



THE REVOLT OF THE BEES. 77 

Gold. Nay, not so fast ; lay by your toil and care,. 
And freely all our promised frolic share. 
There Labor waits its weary power to press, 
Here Pleasure beckons with a warm caress. [Points, l. 

(Distant Chorus. Repeat " Boating Song" during 
which Thriftie steps back, c, GtOldwtng, Bright- 
hue, cross stage, take tivo Attendants, place their arms 
about their waists, and pass slowly across stage to L. 
Varia and Spotila cross, and have their arms about 
the waists of the other Attendants, facing c. as the 
song closes.) 

Thriftie (loud). Halt. 

(Stands c, with hand raised. Two Attendants pass 
quickly to Thriftie, stand just behind her on each side, 
with hand lightly resting on her waist ; the other two 
fall on one knee, r. and l. of Thriftie, with hands 
raised to her waist. The Butterflies R. L.) 

Tableau. Music should be soft until the attention of the 
audience is fixed. 

Base pleasure-seekers, vain 
Are your arts to tempt my faithful train. 
True are their hearts when Thriftie leads the way ; 
With love they labor and with trust obey. 
Oif to your frolics ; we have staid too long ; 
We move to duty ; list our cheery song. 

(Chorus. " Hunting Song" repeated, during which 
Thriftie and Attendants march off, r.) 

Bright. Goldwing, your plot has failed. 



78 THE REVOLT OF THE BEES. 

Gold. ^ay, pause a while ; 

I'll find a way these grubbers to beguile ; 
The zealous Thriftie is the model bee ; 
None so industrious in the hive as she ; 
Anon we'll meet some more congenial soul, 
Who'll gladly frolic on yon grassy knoll. 
And here comes one with whom I gossip daily, 
The grumbler of the hive. 

Enter Gaylie, and three Attendants, E. 

Good morrow, Gaylie. 
Gay. Ah, neighbor Goldwing, you're a merry elf; 
You have no care ; you never toil for pelf. 

{They sit together on bank, C.) 

And yet no sister of our thrifty race 

Wears gayer garb, or shows such cheerful face. 

(One of the Attendants moves up, stands behind Gaylie, 
r., with hand on her shoulder. Brighthtje does the 
same with Goldwing, l.) 

Gold. Ay, free from care am I ; at will to roam 
O'er hill and meadow, everywhere at home. 
Come, Gaylie, join us in a sportive race ; 
'Twill smooth the wrinkles from your troubled face. 

{Another Attendant sinks at Gaylie's feet, R., with her 
left arm resting in her lap, looking into her face. 
Yaria does the same, L.) 

Gay. Nay, neighbor Goldwing, I must now away ; 
Our gracious queen will brook no more delay ; 



THE REVOLT OF THE BEES. 79 

O, for one hour of your gay, careless mirth ! 
Twere brighter than the sunshine to the earth. 

{Another Attendant kneels on the side of bank, r., her 
elbow on bank, head resting on her hand. Varia does 
the same, l.) 

Gold. Then shall the gayest reyel be prepared, 
And with you, neighbor Gaylie, freely shared. 
O'er yonder mead we'll frolic light and free, 
And you the empress of our sports shall be. 
Your presence will our gayety enhance. 
List, Gaylie, to the music of the dance. 

(Tableau. As arranged, Gaylie and the Attendants 
look, l., with a pleased, eager, listening expression. 
The Butterflies watch Gaylie attentively. Trusta 
steals in, l., Warxa, r., with fingers on their lips ; 
stop in entrance, and, leaning forward, appear to be 
listening. Soft music until all is still, then distant 
chorus. '• In light tripping measure?) 

" In light tripping music, surrounded by pleasure, 
We count the gay hours that too hastily fly ; 
Hence, care and sorrow ! daren't come nigh," &c. 

Gay. What joyous sounds ! O, how I long to share 
Such merry pastime, free from toil and care ! 

Gold. Then come with us, leaye toil and care behind ; 
Come where the Butterflies enjoyment find ; 
Spread wings, sail free ; the happiest are they 
Who make of life a frolic and a play. 

Gay. (starting up ; all rise). I will, I will; no more 
a toiling bee, 
Your free and roying life delighteth me. 
Off to your sports ; Til follow with my train. 



80 THE REVOLT OF THE BEES. 

Warna (comes forward). Hold, hold! rash Gaylie, 
on your life refrain. 

Gay. Warna, what right have you to interfere ? 

Warna. As guardian of the hive we hold dear. 
I warn you, Gaylie, that a dire disgrace 
Falls on the luckless member of our race 
Who disobeys our Queen's supreme decree. 
Beware, O Gaylie, lest it fall on thee. 

Gay. Warna, thou art a despot's willing slave. 
Away I your warning and her frown I brave. 
With these gay rovers to the dance I fly. 

1st Att. Til follow, Gaylie. 

2d Att. So will I. 

M Att. And I. 

Gold. Ho ! bravely said ; away on nimble wing. 
For pleasure beckons as we merrily sing. 

(Chorus repeated, "In light tripping measure" during 
which Gaylie and Gold wing, Spotila and Attend- 
ant, Brighthue and Attendant, Varia and Attend- 
ant, march in pairs around stage to L.) 

Gold. I've conquered ; now my joy is all complete. 
Gaylie once banished from her sweet retreat, 
The bees demoralized will warring strive, 
In factions, for possession of the hive. 
Mischief, thou trusty friend, in power arise, 
And seal the triumph of the Butterflies. 

Warna. O Gaylie, by the glories of our race, 
I charge thee, pause, and shun this dire disgrace. 

Trusta. Nay, Warna, you're too strict. Let Gaylie go, 



THE REVOLT OF THE BEES. 81 

An hour's sweet pastime in the air to know ; 
I'll keep her secret, wait her safe return ; 
The absence of the truant none shall learn. 

Warna. False guardian, cease, at duty's high decree, 
Friendship can have no power to silence me ; 
Eegina must upon the instant know 
This base attempt her sway to overthrow. 

Gaylie, Gaylie, by the love we bear, 

1 pray you this unwelcome duty spare ; 
Think of the thrifty name our hive has borne, 
Think of our sisters, who your loss will mourn. 
Homeward ere now they cheerful move along, 
Easing their burdens with a happy song. 

{Chorus. " Summer Evening™ during which enter, R., 
Thriftie and Attendants.*) 

Bees with light wings move sprightly 

Home to the welcome nest, 
Bearing their burdens so lightly, 

Of treasure the sweetest and best. 
As we give songs, give songs of rejoicing, 

The hive we love is near ; 
Let us give praise, give praise and glad voicing, 

The home we love is here. 

Thriftie. Ah, sister Gaylie, 'twas a luscious treat 
Yon rich and flowery mountain side to beat. 
Such loads and loads of sweets, 'twill well repay 
The labors of our tribe for many a day. 

Gay. And what is this to me? You drudging bees 
May pluck and store its richness, if you please. 
With these gay friends I mean to sport in air, 
And, free from labor, all their pleasures share. 
6 



82 THE REVOLT OF THE BEESr 

Warna. Thriftie ! In some wild and wicked snare 
Our once good Gaylie's fallen unaware ; 
Mocks at the orders of our gracious queen, 
And rails at duty with a traitorous mien. 

Thriftie. Gay lie, forbear ; a dangerous path you tread : 
By no deceitful counsellors be led. 

Gold. Be bold, fair Gaylie ; freedom is the stake. 
"We are your friends ; you will not us forsake. 

Gay. Never ! Thriftie, I will toil no more. 

Enter Queen, u?iperceived, r., stands c. bach. 

Slave to no sovereign whose despotic power, 
Some task gigantic finds for every hour, 
Henceforth I'll freely rove, myself a queen. 
With will as mighty, and with air serene, 
As she whom you obey. Now off I fly. 
Who dares to check my progress ? 

Queen (stepping forward). I. 

All. The Queen ! 

Queen. Ay, loyal subjects, here 

Your Queen appears. 5 Tis time to interfere. 
Vile discontent, the curse of happy hives, 
To raise a fierce revolt insanely tries. 
Unseen, unknown, I've witnessed all its course, 
And now to check it bring a last resource. 
Gaylie, thou traitress, leader of a host 
Of all my subjects loved and trusted most, 
These wily Butterflies, so debonair, 
Have of thy weak complainings made a snare. 
Their life they picture as so bright and gay, 
Is short and vapid, lasts but for a day ; 



THE REVOLT OF THE BEES. 83 

While we, by labor, energy, and worth, 
Long live and prosper ; and o'er all the earth 
Our busy traffic, with its proud renown, 
Sets brightest ornaments in labor's crown. 
Thou hast rebelled against our righteous laws, 
And cast a foul reproach upon our cause. 
Away ! Thou wouldst be free. I here renounce 
All claims, and doom of banishment pronounce. 

Gay. {falls at her feet). No, no, not that; 
O, gracious Queen, forbear, 
Here, at your feet, I do implore you spare. 
'Twas folly's promptings, pleasure's wild desire, 
That, all unchecked, rebellion did inspire. 

Gold. Gaylie, forbear ; let not those drudging bees 
Behold our chosen empress on her knees. 

Gay. Tempter, away ; thy flattery is base ; 
Too late I read thy falsehood in thy face. 
O, gracious Queen, withdraw thy fell decree ; 
Let me a toiler with my sisters be ; 
No wild desire, no feverish unrest, 
Shall tempt me from the haven of our rest. 

Queen, It cannot be. 

Thriftie. My prayers I lend, 

Trusting, O, gracious Queen, thy will to bend. 
Place Gaylie in my charge ; I'll stake my life 
My teachings will o'ercome all thoughts of strife. 

Queen. I do relent. Gaylie, thy place no more 
Can be a leader's. Henceforth, as of yore, 
Within the ranks of those who burdens bear, 
Thou must their service and their duties share. 
This be thy punishment. But by the love 
We bear thee, Gaylie, thy repentance prove. 



84 _ THE REVOLT OF THE BEES. 

Gay. Thanks, gracious mistress ; let my actions speak ; 
Your favor to regain will G-aylie seek. 

Gold. Gaylie, thou false one, pleasure calls. Farewell ! 
Think of our pastimes in thy gloomy cell. 

[_Exeunt, l., Goldwexg, Betghthue. Vabja, and 
Sfotila. 

Queen. Idlers, away ! disturb no more our drove, 
But to your gay and senseless follies move ; 
And now to work ; Gaylie's revolt is o'er ; 
Into our hive your choicest treasures pour ; 
And as you strive our products to increase, 
With industry, the germ of joy and peace, 
Remember not alone in garnered show 
Of wealth does she her bounteous harvests know, 
But that true hearts may find, in every task, 
Pleasure more lasting than the tongue can ask ; 
Its busy hum is music's gayest measure, 
And love of labor is its richest treasure. 

(Chorus. " A Wish for the Mountains") 

Where the flowers are hills adorning 

Where the clover beds unfold, 
"Where the early rays of morning 

Kim the leaves of green with gold, 
Where the brightest roses grow, 
Thither, thither will we go, 
Thither, thither will we go. 

(Repeat chorus; then march off, Wakna and Trusta, 
Queen, Thkiftie, and Gaylie, their Attendants, l.) 

Note. — The tunes used in this allegory may all be found in 
" The Grammar School Chorus," used in Boston schools. It 
can be obtained of the publishers, Lee & Shepard. Price $1.00. 



A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 



CHARACTERS. 



Mr. Clapboard, Proprietor of "Bachelors' Paradise." 
Ebe>ezer Crotchet, a retired manufacturer. 
Horace Crotchet, his son. 
Peter Picket, a soldier. 
Obed Oakum, a sailor. 
Timothy Ten-pan, a tinker. 
:- Loopstitch, a tailor. 



COSTUMES. 



Clapboard, gray wig, brown coat, dark pants. 

Bbsnszkr, gray wig, blue coat with brass buttons, dark pants, 
hat, and cane. 

Horace, modern suit, neat and tasty. 

Peter, United States army overcoat, fatigue cap, red wig, red 
side whisk 

Obed, light Yankee wig, pea-jacket, tarpaulin hat, wide sailor 
trousers, blue shirt. 

7::: : rarr, black crop wig, smutty face, overalls, and woollen 
jacket. 

Louis, tight black pants, with short legs, slippers, white stock- 
k coat, with short arms, buttoned to the throat, black 
cravat, without collar. 

irtment in Mr. Clapboard's home. Lounge 

aclc. Black velvet hreakfast-jachet and smoJcing-cap 

lying across the corner. Small table, r. Chairs, R. 

L. Entrances, R. and L. 

85 



86 A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 

Enter Mr. Clapboard, r., followed by Ebenezer 
Crotchet. 

Clapboard. This is the room, sir. 

Ebenezer. O, it is ! This is the mysterious abode of 
my runaway son. Well, I don't see anything very invit- 
ing here ; a few miserable chairs, a rickety lounge, a 
mean little table — 

Clap. Come, come, sir ; donj^abuse my furniture. 

Eben. O, pooh, pooh ! What business have you har- 
boring a runaway scamp who ought to be at home, you 
old, gray-headed ruffian ? 

Clap. Come, come, sir ; once for all, I won't be 
abused in my own house. If your son chooses to hire a 
room in my house, to pay handsomely for the same, and 
to behave himself in a gentlemanly manner, here he stops 
just as long as he pays, you old heathen. 

Eben. Old heathen ! Confound you, do you know 
who you are talking to, Mr. Claptrap? 

Clap. Clapboard, sir ; Clapboard is my name. 

Eben. Do you know who you are talking to ? 

Clap. I've a pretty good idea. Some fiery old lunatic 
just escaped from Bedlam. 

Eben. Fire and fury ! I'll break this cane over your 
head, insolent ! 

Clap. Do ; and then I'll throw you and the pieces 
down those stairs, catamount ! 

Eben. (Aside.) O, this won't do. (Aloud.) I beg 
your pardon, Mr. Claptrap. 

Clap. Clapboard, sir. 

Eben'. Mr. Clapboard, I was a little hasty. You 
must attribute it to the anxiety of a devoted parent. I 
have a son. 



A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 87 

Clap. So I understand. 

Eben. A week ago lie left the parental mansion, for 
the purpose, as he said, of recruiting himself at a quiet 
place in the country. All very well, of course. I could 
bring nothing to say against that ; but yesterday I re- 
ceived an anonymous note, mailed at this place, bidding 
me look out for my son, who, the note said, had formed 
a tender attachment. Do you hear? — a tender attach- 
ment ! 

Clap. Well, what of it? 

Eben. What of it? Hear the man! Sir! Mr. 
Claptrap ! 

Clap. Clapboard, sir. 

Eben. Mr. Clapboard. Ten years ago I retired from 
the soap and candle business with a fortune. This boy 
is my only son ; young, impulsive, thoughtless, he has 
come to the country ; his susceptible heart is a target, at 
which a thousand loving glances will be thrown by the 
eyes of rural beauties — 

Clap. Humbug ! There isn't a female within three 
miles of the place. This is called " Bachelors' Para- 
dise." There's Jobson's house, Seymour's, and mine ; 
specially erected for the convenience of artists, fishermen, 
and such like gentry, who want a quiet place in the 
country. 

Eben. Is it possible ! Then my son's tender attach- 
ment — 

Clap. It's some trick played to frighten you. 

Eben. Perhaps it is, but I have my doubts. Who 
lodges in this house besides my son ? 

Clap. Well, sir, on the floor below, there's Mr. Tim- 
othy Tinpan, a nice, gentlemanly — tinker. 



<5o A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 

Ehcn. A tinker? — {Aside.) Bachelors' Paradise ! 
{Aloud.) Gentlemanly humbug ! Who else? 

Clap. The next floor above is occupied by Mr. Peter 
Picket, a military gentleman, who served his country in 
the great rebellion. 
.Eben. A soldier ! (Noise outside.) What's that g 

Clap. That's him. He's always going through his 
tactics. He dropped his gun. 

Eben. Did he! Then Mr. Peter Picket had better 
pick it up. Well, who else? 

Clap. Next above him is Mr. Oakum, a well-man- 
nered mariner, engaged in the lumber trade. 

Eben. Is that all? 

Clap. No, sir ; the floor above him, next the roof, is 
occupied by Mr. Loopstitch, a tailor, a native of France. 

Eben. Soldier, sailor, tinker, and tailor ! Here's nice 
company for my boy. 

Clap. O, they're a nice, gentlemanly set, I assure 
you ; very quiet. Mr. Picket is apt to be a little rest- 
less nights ; walks in his sleep ; and sometimes wanders 
about the house with a loaded musket. Mr. Oakum is 
of rather a musical turn, and has his " bark upon the 
sea" a little too often. Mr. Tinpan is very fond of re- 
hearsing his war-cry, " Old kettles to mend ; " and Mr. 
Loopstitch is making frantic efforts to master the trom- 
bone. But generally they are quiet, gentlemanly, re- 
spectable individuals. 

Eben. I should say so. And my son abandons his 
luxurious home, his highly respectable connections, for 
such society as this? 

Clap. Lord bless you, young gentlemen have their 
little freaks, you know. 



A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 80 

Eben. And so have old gentlemen too. I have a very 
sudden one myself. For how long has my son engaged 
this room? 

Clap. Let me see ; he has paid me for it up to six 
o'clock to-night. 

Eben. And after that I suppose it will be to let. 

Clap. Of course. Though probably he'll keep it him- 
self. 

Eben. Hark you, Mr. Claptrap. 

Clap. Clapboard, sir. 

Eben. Mr. Clapboard, I want to hire this room my- 
self. What does my son pay you? 

Clap. Six dollars a week. Cheap enough. 

Eben. All right. I'll engage it for a week myself, for 
which I will pay you twelve. 

Clap. But, sir, he has the first choice. 

Eben. Xo, he hasn't ; he's not of age. I am his 
guardian, and I want it myself ; so here's your money. 
At six o'clock I shall come and take possession. 

Clap. But, Mr. Crotchet — . 

Eben. Xo more words are necessary. You keep a 
house for the entertainment of gentlemen who wish a 
quiet place in the country. You certainly cannot refuse 
so handsome an offer as I have made you. 

Clap. But your son — 

Eben. Has comfortable quarters at home, where he 
belongs. You can inform him of my appearance here, 
and of the bargain I have made. Tell him to go home 
and amuse himself; that I shall positively take up my 
quarters here at six o'clock. (Aside.) There's some- 
thing wrong here ; " a tender attachment," I'll be bound , 



90 A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 

and I'm determined to find it out. (Aloud.) Good day, 
Mr. Claptrap. \_Exit, R. 

Clap. Clapboard, sir — Now here's a nice mess ! 
What will Mr. Horace say to this, after he has got 
everything comfortably arranged for his purpose, to be 
flustered in this maimer. It's too bad ! 

Enter Horace, r. 

Horace. I say, Clapboard, why don't you light up 
your stairs? I nearly tumbled over an old chap just 
now, who was going down. 

Clap. Old chap, indeed ! Do you know who it was? 

Hor. Haven't the least idea. 

Clap. Well, sir, it was your father. 

Hor. My father? Whew! Then the old gentleman 
has found me out ! 

Clap. He certainly has ; but he's laboring under a 
terrible mistake. Some one has sent him an anonymous 
note, bidding him look after you, for you had formed a 
tender attachment. 

Hor. A tender attachment? That's some mischief 
of the fellows at Jobson's. Well, what does he propose 
to do? 

Clap. He's engaged this room. 

Hor. Engaged this room? Why, Clapboard, it's 
mine — isn't it? 

Clap. Until six o'clock. If you'll remember, that 
was the time for which you took it. 

Hor. But I want it a week longer. 

Clap. You're too late. He's engaged it, and paid for 
it ; and will be here at six o'clock to take possession. 



A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 91 

Hor. Clapboard, you've played me a shabby trick ! 

Clap. I couldn't help it, sir ; he thrust the money into 
my hands ; said he was your legal guardian, and told me 
to send you home. 

Hor. I'll not go until my work is finished. Well, 
Clapboard, let him come ; his stay shall be short. 

Clap. What will you do? 

Hor. That's a question for consideration. Six months 
ago my father and myself differed with regard to my 
choice of a profession. He wished me to be a lawyer. 
I determined to be a painter. He was immovable in his 
choice. I was stubborn and sullen in mine. By mutual 
consent we dropped the discussion, agreeing not to renew 
it for a year. I was at once filled with the desire to 
produce something that would induce him to agree with 
me, believing that if I could show that I had talent, he 
would let me have my way. I immediately threw my- 
self into the society of artists, and by that means gained 
an inkling of the rudiments of the profession, and I found 
I had some talent. But how to convince my father? I 
hit upon the idea of attempting a painting ; something 
remarkable — a great allegorical national picture, " The 
Crowning of Liberty," a magnificent idea ! To carry it 
out, I required a studio and living models. I read your 
advertisement of " Bachelors' Paradise ; " came down, 
engaged a room, fitted it up, and looked around for 
models. But, alas ! it was indeed a " bachelors' para- 
dise ! " Xot a female figure within three miles ! Of 
course I was obliged to put up with the stock on hand ; 
and with a soldier, a sailor, a tinker, and a tailor, as the 
only models to be obtained, I have been obliged to draw 



92 A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 

upon fancy to an alarming extent ; and now it seems I 
am to be deprived of tliem by my meddling, inquisitive, 
good old daddy. 

Clap. It's too bad, Mr. Horace. I wish I could help 
you out of the scrape. 

Hor. I wish you could. But as you can't, suppose 
you go and hunt up my models, and let me get to work. 
Clap. Certainly, sir ; I'll send them in at once. 

[Exit, R. 
(Horace takes off his coat and puts on breakfast 
jacket and smoking-cap, then goes off, l., and re- 
turns with an easel, which he sets up, L., then goes 
off, L., and brings in canvas, brushes, and palette; 
arranges the canvas on easel to face l., places 
chair L. 
Clap. {Outside, R., while Horace is arranging his 
picture.) Hallo, down there, Tinpan ! 

Timothy. (Outside, as if down stairs.) Faith, now, 
what's wanting, sure? 

Clap. You're wanted here. 

Tim. All right. Be aisy, honey, till I mind the nose 
uv this tay-kittle. 

Clap. Hallo, Picket ! 

Ticket. (As if up stairs.) Yaw, mine fren. 
Clap. You're wanted in the studio. 
Tic. Yaw, dat ish goot. I'll come right avay pefore 
soon. 

Clap. Hallo, Oakum ! 

Oakum. (Upstairs.) Hallo, yerself ! 

Clap. Come down for a pose. 

Oak. Ay, ay, Clapboard ; in a jiffy. 



A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 93 

Clap. Hallo, Loopstitcli ! 

Loopstitch. {la the distance.) Oui, oui, monsieur. 

Clap. You're wanted for a posish. 

Loop. Yat you mean by dat, ^h? Yot you call posish? 
I no comprehend. 

Clap. Well, come and find out. 

Hor. The models are aroused. Now for a season of 
inspiration ! 

Enter Picket, r., with a musket. 

Pic. Ah, Meester Horace, how you vas? Berty 
mooch ? 

Hor. Ah, Picket, you're right on hand. 

Pic. Yaw, yaw ; I ish coomed right along, by donder, 
mit mine gun upon mine pack. 

Hor. Like a true hero, and with the martial spirit in- 
spiring your bosom — hey? 

Pic. Yaw, I shpose vat you mean, but I don't know. 

Enter Oakum, r. 

Oak. Hallo! Heow are yeou anyheow? Goin' at 
the picter ag'in? 

Hor. Yes ; I believe I can make my brush fly this 
afternoon. 

Oak. Wal, yeou painter chaps dew beat all creation ; 
that's a fact. I s'pose yeou know what yeou're abaout ; 
but darn me if I can see into it. What's the use er wast- 
in' yer time a flingin' away paint on that air diminutive 
quiltin'-frame. Would do more good ef yeou'd give old 
Clapboard's house a coat ; it wants it bad enough ! 



94 A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 

Enter Loopstitch, r. 

Loop. Sacre ! vat for you want — Hey? I have break 
off mine thread right in de meedle of ze pantaloons. 

Hot. You remember our bargain. You were to be 
at my service when wanted. 

Loop. Service? Sacre, zis is too much all ze time. 
Monsieur Fusee have no pantaloons ; he make ze trou- 
ble, ze fuss ; he raise vat you call ze storm, if he no have 
ze pantaloons. 

Oak. Well, let him sweat, Frenchy. I'll lend him a 
pair. 

Enter Timothy, r. 

Tim. Arrah, b'ys, how are yees, onyhow? It's the 
tip uv the morning till yees, Misther Horace. 

Oak. Hallo, Tim ! How's trade? 

Tim. Thrade, is it? Bad luck to its ! There's none 
at all at all. It's loike the nose of Paddy Flinu's pig — 
it's away down in the mud. 

Oak. Well, here's hoping that, like Paddy Flinn's 
pig, it may pick up a bit. 

Tim. That's thrue for ye, Misther Oakum. 

Hor. Now, then, let's to work. Tinpan, you and 
Loopstitch don your habiliments, and we'll go to work. 

Tim. Don — which is it? 

Loop. Sacre ! I no comprehend. 

Oak. Darn it, Tim, jump into the Goddess of Liber- 
ty's clos ; and, Loopstitch, put on that air gown of Vic- 
tory's. 

Tim. Begorra ! that's a sinsible way of putting things. 

[Exit) l. 



A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 95 

Loop. Victory ! Oui, oui ; I comprehend victory. 

[Exit, l. 

Oak. Sick a set of darned stupid Turriners I never 
did see. 

Pic. Yaw ; dey ish very hard of hearing, by donder ! 

Oak. Well, Picket, you managed to give us a pretty 
good scare last night, walking round with that old blun- 
derbuss ! Ef yeou ain't keerful, yeou'll let fly at some 
on us, and then there'll be a purty case of manslaughter. 

Pic. Yaw ; manslaughter ish goot. I like him mooch 
ven I fights mit Sigel. By donder ! I tink of dat ebery 
night in mine shleep, and I no shleep at all. 

Oak. Well, consarn yeour picter ! deon't yeou come 
up my way; if yer da, I'll souse yer head in a bucket 
of tar ! 

Pic. Yaw ; I no like dat purty well. 

Enter Timothy, l., dressed as the Goddess of Liberty ; 
red skirt, mail waist, Hue drapery about shoulders. 

Tim. Begorra ! how's that for a famale woman ? 
What would Judy O'Flanagan say to that? Tim Tinpan 
in a red petticoat? Whoo ! kittles to mind, kittles to 
mind ! 

Enter Loopstitch, in a long ichite gown, with a green 
wreath in his hand. 

Loop. Sacre ! I feel all over like vat you call ze 
goost. 

Oak. And darn me if you don't look like one ! 

Loop. Vat you mean by dat — hey, Monsieur Oakum ? 



96 A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 

Hor. Come, now take your places. 

Tim. All right; away wid yees. (Takes position in 
centre of stage ; left hand against his breast, right hand 
pointing up.) 

Hor. That's right ; now Victory. (Loopstitch gets 
upon a stool behind Timothy, and holds ivreath over his 
head.) Very well. Now, then, for the army and navy. 
(Picket stands R. of Timothy, leaning upon his mus- 
ket ; Oakum stands l., his arms folded.) Good, 
good ! Positions are all right. Now, then, for the 
expressions. 

Tim. Hould on a minute ; there's something crawl- 
ing up my back. 

Hor. Never mind, never mind ! 

Tim. But I do mind. It's biting me, the ugly thief! 
Here, Frenchy, give me a dig in the back. 

Loop. Sacre ! vare vill I find vat you call de spade? 

Oak. Here; I'll fix you. (Gives Timothy a thump 
on the back.) 

Tim. Murder and Irish ! you've broke my ribs ! 

Hor. Come, come, Tim ; put a smiling expression 
upon your face. 

Tim. Smile, is it, with a hornet crawling up my 
back ! 

Hor. We're wasting time. Smile, I tell you. 

Tim. Well, then, here goes. (A horrible smile.) 

Hor. Now, Loopstitch, triumph in your face. 

Loop. Oui, oui. Vive la triomphe ! 

Hor. That's very good. Now, Picket, let a martial 
spirit glow in your face. 

Pic. Yaw, yaw. (Starts, r.) 



A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 07 

Hot. Where are you going? 

Pic. For mine lager, mit de spirit up stairs. 

Hot. No, no ; you don't understand me. Look as 
you looked when you met the rebels, fierce for the fight. 

Pic. Venlfight mit Sigel? 

Hot. Yes ; as you did then, do now. 

Pic. Yaw ; den I'll go right up stairs. 

Hot. What do you mean ? 

Pic. Ven I fight mit Sigel, ven de repels coom, ve 
runned away. 

Oak. What a darned sneaking coward ! 

Tim. Easy, now, Mr. Horace ; my hand's getting 
tired. 

Hot. Let me see what I can do. (Goes to easel, and 
takes brush.) Now, steady, all. 

Tim. Och, murder ! the crayture's crawling up my 
back again ! 

Pic. I am ash dry ash never vas. 

Hot. Steady, steady ! 

Tim. Ow, my back ! Give me a dig, Frenchy. 

Oak. Confound you, I will ! (Hits Timothy in the 
stomach, who doubles up.) 

Tim. Ow, murther, murther ! (Backs into Loop- 
stitch, who tumbles over. Timothy runs up and down 
stage holding.) 

Loop. Sacre ! you have broke me all to pieces. 

Hot. Order, order ! How do you suppose I can paint 
with such confusion? You have spoiled everything. 

Tim. Faith, it's not myself that's to blame. 

Oak. Darn him ! he's got a nest of hornets under his 
jacket ! 

7 



98 a TENDER ATTACHMENT. 

Hor. We can do nothing to-day. It's now nearly six 
o'clock. An individual will be here at six to take pos- 
session of my room ; he has hired it, and I must vacate. 

Oak. What, hired the room over your head ? 

Hor. Yes ; it's a little plot of my father's to get me 
home again. If he stays here, I must give up my paint- 
ing ; and of course you will be wanted no more as 
models. 

Loop. Sacre ! zat is too bad ! ver mooch too bad ! 

Tim. Faith ! must I lose my sitivation ? 

Pic. Yaw ; we can't come here some more ! 

Hor. That's exactly the state of the case. Of course, 
as he's my father, it will not do for me to take any meas- 
ures to cause him to leave. With you it is different. If 
you can manage to make him sick of his bargain to- 
night, we shall resume operations to-morrow, as usual. 

Oak. Darn him, we'll pitch him out of the winder ! 

Hor. No, no ; no violence ! 

Tim. No, b'ys ; no voilence. We'll break his head 
intirely ! That's all. 

Hor. He's very particular to have everything about 
him quiet. I offer no suggestions. If you can manage 
to scare him a little, I've no objections. 

Tim. Faith, lave us alone for that. 

Oak. Come to my room, boys ; we'll fix the old skin- 
flint ! Come along. 

Tim. Yaw ; flint ish goot ven I fight mit Sigel. 

Oak. O, never mind Seagull. Come along. 

Loop. Sacre ! Vat you fix his flint with ? I no com- 
prehend. 

Oak. I'll fix everything all right. Leave it to me. 
Come along. [Exit, n. 



A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 99 

Tim. I'm wid yees. If there's to be a shindy, count 
me in. [Exit, R. 

Loop. Monsieur, I be vat you call in ze dark ve>r 
much all over. 

Pic. Yaw, it pe all covered mit de dark like de moon- 
shine. [Exit Loopstitch and Picket, r. 

Hor. What a set of stupid donkeys ! If they manage 
to circumvent my respected parent, I'll forgive them. 
{Exchanges jacket for coat, and puts on hat. Stage 
dark.) How dark it is ! 

Clap. (Outside, R.) You're very prompt, sir. 

Eben. (Outside, r.) I am always prompt. Is the 
room ready? 

Clap. (Outside, r.) Yes, sir ; walk this way. 

Hor. There he is, right on time. There's sure to be 
a rumpus, and I'm bound to see the fun. [Exit, l. 

Enter Clapboard, with a lighted candle, which he places 
on table, followed by Ebenezer. 

Eben. Now, sir, I've caught you at your tricks ! 
Why, he's gone ! 

Clap. Why, you certainly didn't expect to find him 
here. 

Eben. I certainly did. Where is he ? 

Clap. He's probably at Jobson's, over the way. But 
he'll be back soon. He'll be delighted to see you. 

Eben. Clapboard, you lie ! you know he won't. 

Clap. Come, come, Mr. Crotchet, don't insult a man 
in his own room. 

Eben. 'Tis false ! it's my room ; and you may take 
yourself out of it just as soon as you can ! 
2 



100 A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 

Clap. You don't mean to stay here ! 

Eben. Yes, I do. I've had another note from my 
unknown correspondent. The object of his tender at- 
tachment visits him every evening, and I'm bound to see 
her. 

Clap. O, pshaw, Mr. Crotchet! you've been hum- 
bugged ! 

JEben. I know it ; but I'll be humbugged no longer ; 
so here I'll stay to unmask the hypocrite ! 

Clap. Well, stay, then ; but if you're made uncom- 
fortable, don't blame me. 

Eben. What do you mean? 

Clap. No matter ; I've cautioned you. Keep your 
eyes open, and don't blame me. Eemember you have 
been cautioned. Good night. [Exit, n. 

Eben. Clapboard, Clapboard — What does he mean ? 
Can there be any danger ? I'm an old fool ! What 
business have I down in this unfrequented place, all 
alone? I'll go back. No, I won't! Horace would 
laugh and chuckle ! He shan't do that ! Who's afraid? 
I'll make myself comfortable on that lounge ; and when 
he comes, he shall learn how terrible is the vengeance 
of an enraged and injured parent. (Reclines upon 
lounge. Noise overhead; jumps up.) What's that? 
It's that infernal soldier ! Clapboard said he walks in 
his sleep. Suppose he should come here — with a 
loaded musket too ! Gracious! {Trombone heard out- 
side.) There's the tailor practising. What a confounded 
din! 

Oak. (Sings, outside, very loud.) " My bark is on the 
sea." 



A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 101 

Eben. There's that sailor going it ! 

Tim. {Outside, sings.) " Ould kittles to mind! Ou'iTl 
kittles to mind ! " 

Eben. And there's the tinker. {Trombone, " ould 
kittles" and " bark upon the sea" all together.) What 
a confounded din ! I wish I was well out of it. 

Enter Picket, with musket, slowly, on tiptoe. 

Pic. Who goes dare? 

Elm, O, heavens ! There's that insane old grena- 
dier ! What will become of me? 

Pic. Sh — ! By donder, I see some noise ! Sh — ! 
Who goes dare? Sh — ! Somepody mit a gun. Ad- 
vance pefore you speak, and say something. Sh — ! 
(Creeps about the room on tiptoe.) 

Eben. {On lounge.) If he discovers me, I am a lost 
man ! 

Pic. By donder, if dare ish nopody here, vy don't you 
speak? You vant your coat-tails shot through mit a 
pullet. {Creeps back to door, R.) I fight mit Sigel. 
Sh — ! By donder ! I never hear so mooch silence pe- 
fore ! [Exit, r. 

Eben. He's gone. I breathe again. O, Lord, what's 
that? (Loopstitch in the white robe passes slowly across 
stage, from r. to l., with his arm outstretched, hand 
pointing straight before him. Exit, l.) An apparition ! 
What infernal place have I got into ? I'll go home at 
once. {Goes to R. The door is locked. Loopstitch, 
ivithout the robe, creeps in, L., and gets behind lounge.) 

Loop. Sacre ! I vill give him a touch of my needles ! 

Eben. What an old donkey I am, to get into such a 



102 A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 

scrape ! What shall I do ? I can't get out. Suppose I 
alarm the neighborhood I That won't do ; I should 
have the whole set upon me. I'll try to sleep. (Lies 
upon lounge. Loopstitch leans over and runs a needle 
into his ami.) O, murder ! What's that? Confound 
this infernal place ! (Loopstitch sticks another needle.) 
O, my arm, my arm ! {Jumps up.) I can't stand this ! 
Here ! Help, help, help, help ! 

Enter Oakum, r. Creeps in very mysteriously ; takes 
Ebenezer by the wrist, and leads him down to the front 
of the stage. 

Oak. Silence! Sh— ! 

Eben. O, take me out of this ! I'm a poor old man. 

Oak. Silence ! Sh — ! Listen to me. You re- 
ceived a note from somebody — 

Eben. Yes, I did. Confound somebody ! 

Oak. Silence ! Sh— ! " Tender attachment ! " It's 
all true, by jiminy ! 

Eben. I knew it. 

Oak. Your son — has a tender attachment. The ob- 
ject of it is approaching. It will soon be here. 

Eben. You don't say so ! 

Oak. Old man, you have a son ; that son has a ten- 
der attachment; the object of that tender attachment — 
sh — ! — will soon be here. 

Eben. Confound you, you said that before ! 

Oak. Be wise, be cautious, and you shall triumph. 
Silence ! It comes ! the — object — comes ! (Creeps 
off, R.) 

Eben. Well, that's the queerest customer that ever I 
met. Hallo ! who's this ? 



A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 103 

Enter Timothy, dressed as the Goddess of Liberty, with 
a veil thrown over his face. 

'Tis she, at last ! Now to unmask the villain ! 

Tim. Idol of ine sowl ! 

Eben, Irish, as I'm alive ! 

Tim. Och, yees illigent darlint ! and did yees think 
yer own Kathleen, accushla, would den)' yees the comfort 
of her prisence ? 

Eben. So, madam, you are found out ! Know, to 
your sorrow, that you stand in the presence of the father 
of the unhappy young man you came to meet? 

Tim. It's the ould man — is it? Faith, ould chap, 
how is yes, onyhow? 

Eben. Insolent ! 

Tim. It's a foine-looking ould fellow yees are ; and 
is that yer own hair, or is it a wig, I'd like Jo know. 

Eben. Young woman, no more of this. I came to 
snatch my son from your society. 

Tim. My society ! Faix, yes might do better. It's 
a comfort I am to him anyhow. You would be afther 
parting us at all at all ! 

Eben. Hold your tongue, and leave the room ! 

Tim. Hould yees blarney yerself, or I'll — I'll pull 
the hair from your head ! 

Eben. Leave this room, instantly, or I'll put you out ! 

Tim. You put me out, is it? Begorra ! the sooner 
yees commiuce that same, the betters to the liking of 
Tim Tinpan. 

Eben. (Talcing hold of him.) Leave the room, I 
say ! 



104 A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 

Tim. Off wid yees, or I'll break ivery bone in yees 
body ! 

Eben. You will — will you? (Takes hold of him.) 

Tim. (Throws off veil.) Arrah, boys, here's a shin- 
dy ! Come on, old gint ! (Flourishes his fist.) 

Eben. Here ! Help, help, help ! (Timothy clinches 
him.) Leave the room ! 

Enter Horace, l., Oakum, Clapboard, and Picket, r. 
Loopstitch crawls from behind lounge. 

Hor. Why, father ! what's the matter ? 

Eben. 0, you villain ! you scamp ! you renegade ! 
You have come just in time to save your father from a 
terrible fate ! But I've found you out ! Your " tender 
attachment " is known to me. Look upon her ! Can 
you look upon your father's face, and confess a tender 
attachment to such a thing as that? 

Hor. Not a tender attachment, father ; but I will con- 
fess I am under great obligations to that individual, Tim- 
othy Tinpan, the tinker. 

Eben. What ! is that woman a man ? 

Tim. Troth, and a foine ould Irish gintleman ! 

Hor. Yes, father, he is one of my models. 

Tim. Faith, a model Irishman, by yer lave ! 

Eben. Models ! What do you mean ? 

Hor. That I have been endeavoring to overcome your 
repugnance to my becoming a painter, by attempting the 
execution of a painting which you see upon that easel. 
These individuals have been my models. Timothy Tin- 
pan, the tinker. 



A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 105 

Tim. That's me, sure. 

Hor. Obed Oakum, the sailor. 

Oak. Ay, ay ; second mate of the Harriet Jones. 

Hor. Louis Loopstitch, the tailor. 

Loop. Oui, oui ; sal I make you a pair of pantaloons, 
monsieur ? 

Hot. And Peter Picket, the soldier. 

Pic. Yaw, dat ish me, mit my gun upon mine 
pack. 

Ehen. What, and the note I received — 

Hot. Is one of Harry Jones's jokes. He confessed it 
to me an hour ago. 

Ehen. Clapboard, we've been making donkeys of our- 
selves ! 

Clap. Speak for yourself, Mr. Crotchet, I can't join 
you in that. 

Ehen. Horace, I'm a meddling old fool. I should 
have trusted you. I'll go home. You may go on with 
your picture ; and if out of the material which I find here 
you can produce anything satisfactory, I'll give my con- 
sent to anything you ask. 

Hot. Thank you, father. I'm rather discouraged at 
present ; but if these individuals can cure you of " a ten- 
der attachment," they may be of use to me ; and if they 
can help me to achieve my purpose, you will be obliged 
to admit that there are worse companions than a sol- 
dier — 

Pic. Yaw, what fight mit Sigel. 

Hor. A sailor — 

Oak. Tarnal cute, when his bark's on the sea. 

Hor. A tinker — 



106 A TENDER ATTACHMENT. 

Tim. A broth of a boy for minding the broken nose 
of a t ay-kittle. 

Hor. And a tailor — 

Loop. Oui, oui ; vith vat you call ze tender attach- 
ment for ze needle. 

Disposition of Characters at fall of the Curtain. 
K. L. 

Loop. Pick. 

Tim. Oak. 

Hor. Clap. 

Eben. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 



A DRAMA IN TWO ACTS. 



CHARACTERS. 

David Murray, Keeper of Fairpoint Light. 

Larry Divine, his Assistant. 

Hon. Bruce Hunter. 

Clarence Hunter, his Ward. 

Peter Paragraph, a Newspaper Reporter. 

Scud, Hunter's colored Servant. 

Miss Minnie Daze, Hunter's Niece. 

Bess Starbright, " Cast up by the Waves." 

" Mother Carey," a reputed Fortune-Teller. 

Biddy Bean, an Irish Girl. 



COSTUMES. 

Murray (age 45). Full black beard, iron-gray wig, dark pants, 
red or blue sailor's shirt, with black necktie, pea-jacket, and 
tarpaulin hat. 

Larry (age 25). Red crop wig, pea-jacket, dark pants, red or 
blue sailor's shirt, and tarpaulin hat. 

107 



108 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Hunter (age 45). Dark English side whiskers, iron-gray wig, 

dark, fashionable suit. 
Clarence (age 21). Janty yachtman's suit. 
Paragraph (age 30). Black crop wig, large red mustache, 

gray pants, white vest, black velvet coat, light hat, umbrella. 
Scud (age 40). Gray woolly wig, black face, green plaid pants* 

gaiters, white vest, ruffled shirt front, standing collar, blue 

coat with brass buttons. 
Miss Daze (age 20). Fashionable dress of summer fabric, 

Florida hat, white crape shawl, parasol. 
Bess (age 18). Short red dress, muslin waist, neat polka 

jacket, flowing hair, janty sailor hat. 
" Mother Caret " (age 40). Disguise of an old fortune-teller. 

Long, white hair, wig, dress of dark stuff, red shawl draped 

about her shoulders, crutch-cane. She hobbles, and has the 

appearance of a woman of seventy. 
Biddy Bean. Neat calico dress, apron. 



[In the storm scene, thunder, lightning, and rain are effective. 
Thunder is produced by shaking a large sheet of iron, holding it 
by one corner, lightning by blowing powdered rosin into the 
flame of a candle through a common " pea-shooter." A " rain "- 
box is made by driving pegs of wood into the bottom of a box 
about eighteen inches long, six wide, and six high. Into the 
box throw a handful of dried peas, fasten on the cover, and 
copious showers can be produced by letting the peas slowly rat- 
tle along the box from end to end.] 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 109 



Act I. — Scene. Boom in the Light-keeper's house. 
Table, c, set for supper. Long box or bench, L. 
Rocking-chair, R. Stool, R. Door, c, leading to the 
beach, the lighthouse, &c. Door, R., leading to the 
kitchen. Door, l., leading to Murray's sleeping room. 

Larry and Biddy discovered, r. and l. of table, eating. 

Biddy. Faith, now, Misther Larry, it's joking ye's 
are. 

Larry. Niver a once. There's not a live man wiclclin 
tin miles, savin' the masther, Misther Murray, mysilf, 
owld Mother Carey, and Bess Starbright, the famale life 
praserver, who can bate the worrld wid the pull uv her 
oars, and the light in the tower beyant wid the glame of 
her bright eyes. It's mysilf would like to be drowndecl, 
for the sake of being pulled from a wathery grave by that 
same darlint. And that's the extint uv fashionable 
society at Fairpoint. 

Biddy. Ye don't mane it. 0, musha ! why did I 
lave the city for this wilderness of rocks and say? 

Larry. Why, d'ye ask? Because yer own thrue Irish 
heart towld ye's that here would be found a broth uv a 
b'y pinin' for famale society. O, Biddy Bane, yer a 
jewel, so ye are, and I dying wid the love I've had for 
ye's a twilvemonth, though I niver set eyes on ye afore 
the day. 

Biddy. O, blarney, Misther Larry ! It's a smooth 
tongue ye's have, onyhow. But till me, is the masther 
kind? 



110 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Larry. Well, the laste said about him the betther. 
He's the gloom upon him, and sometimes I think there's 
something gnawin' at his conscience. Well, well, I 
mustn't talk. You've only been here a day. Say for yesilf. 

Biddy. Have ye lived here long, Misther Larry ? 

Larry. A matther of five or six years ; owld Murray 
fifteen. The last kaper of the light was found dead one 
morning afther a stormy night, when the lamps were not 
lit, and a ship drifted into the breakers and wint to paces. 
Not a-sowl saved except Bess Starbright, whom the waves 
tossed up to Mother Carey's door. 

Biddy. An' who's Mother Carey — I donno ? 

Larry. An' it's will ye don't, for to my mind she's 
the very — you know what I mane. She lives on the 
bache, and picks up a livin' by tellin' fates, and fortunes, 
an' sich like. It's a famous resort for the city folks in 
their yachts, and she picks up many a silver bit from the 
loikes of 'em. 

Biddy. A witch is it? O, musha ! I'll pack up my 
thrunk, and lave to onct. 

Larry. O, no you won't, Biddy, darlint. She's no 
trouble to such a dacent, nate, bawitchin' little sowl as ye 
are ; and, besides, here's a warm heart and a sthrong arm 
to love and protict ye's — d'ye mind ? 

Biddy. O, be aisy wid yer jokin' ! Ye bring the 
faver to me cheeks. 

Larry (rising, and coming to side of Biddy). It's no 
joke at all, at all. Ye've come, like the darlint that 
ye are, to cheer my solitude, and swaten the cup uv life 
wid the honey of yer prisence (puts his arm around 
her waist), and I love ye, Biddy Bane, so I do, intirely. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. Ill 

Biddy. Away wid ye's nonsense — don't I tell ye. 

Enter Mother Carey, c. — Biddy jumps up ; runs, l. 

Biddy (l.). O, murther ! who's that? 

Larry (l.). Aisy, Biddy ; it's only Mother Carey. 

Mother Carey {comes down). Man, why sit you idle 
here? See you not the black storm clouds gathering in 
the west? Hear you not the whistling of the winds that 
creep across the sea? the roar of the breakers on the 
rocks ? the seething of the waves along the beach ? The 
storm fiend is abroad, and no warning light in yonder 
tower. Away ! away ! ere 'tis too late. 

Larry. By me sowl, you're right. A storm comin', 
and the lights not lit ! 0, Biddy, Biddy ! it's all your 
work ! \_Exit, c. 

Mother G. (to Biddy). Ah, a new face in the old 
lighthouse. Fresh and fair, buxom form, and strong 
arm. Who are you? 

Biddy. If you plase, marm — misses — Carey, I'm 
nobody — yes, I mane I'm Biddy Bane ; come down from 
the city to do housework for Misther Murray. 

Mother G. But you tremble. Is it with fear? 

Biddy. Yes, marm — no, marm ! 

Mother G. You need not fear me, Biddy. I'm a poor 
old woman, with little strength, and no power to harm 
you. 

Biddy. Yes, marm ; but Larry says you're a witch ! 

Mother G. He does ! Ha, ha ! a witch ! Well, well, 
Larry's clever, but don't believe all he says, though he 
praises the brightness of your eyes and the tint of your 
cheeks. A witch, indeed ! Larry's a fool ! 



112 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Enter Larry, c. 

Larry. I'm obleeged to yer for the compliment. Mother 
Carey, long life to ye's. {Comes down l. of Biddy.) 

Mother G. What nonsense have you been telling this girl ? 

Larry. 'Pon me sowl, no nonsinse at all. I told her 
ye's towld fortunes and fates ; but barrin' that little touch 
of owld Satan, I'll swear ye've a warm heart, to which 
same many a poor tar can tistify who's been hilped by 
yer when driven ashore. 

Mother G. Where's the master to-night, Larry? 

Larry. The masther, is it? Off on one uv his 
thramps. He takes a moighty dale uv ixircise for one 
wid a shmall appetite. 

Mother C. (to herself). Restless as the sea ; pacing 
the sands for hours ; wandering among the rocks — a 
stern, gloomy, mysterious man ; within, a storm of evil 
passions blinding his soul to all outward beauty ; revenge 
flashing up among the dying embers of a fierce life, to be 
smothered by the ashes of remorse. Bad ! bad ! bad ! 
(Turns up stage.) 

Biddy. I say, Misther Larry, would ye be afther 
axing her to till my fortune jist? 

Larry. To be sure I would. I say, Mother Carey, 
this is Biddy Bane. Would ye's be afther tilling her 
fortune ? 

Mother G. Give me your hand, child. (Takes 
Biddy's hand.) A fair, smooth hand. 

Larry. Bedad, that's thrue, onyhow. That's what 
I said. Biddy, said I — 

Biddy. Howld yer pate. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 113 

Mother C. Silence ! A fair, young hand ; the lines 
of fate but indistinct, yet foreshadowing good fortune — 
ah ! I see a lover not far off. 

Larry. Bedad, Biddy, he's close at yer elbow. 

Biddy. Whist yer blarney ! Ye'll sphoil the charm. 

Mother G. I see a little home on the rocks. 

Larry. " A cottage by the say " — d'ye mind, Biddy ? 

Mother C. Troops of children — 

Larry. Young Larrys and Biddys, bedad, and a pig 
— d'ye say a pig ? 

Biddy. Be aisy, Masther Larry. 

Larry. Look for the pig. Don't ye's hear him 
squalin' ? 

David (outside, c). Hallo! Larry! Larry! 

Larry. There's the masther. Ay, ay, sir ! (Going 
towards door.) A lover, an' a cottage ! — Mother Carey, 
jist find that pig in Biddy's hand, or there's no luck in 
the fortune, sure. 

Biddy. The masther's coming, and the table not 
cleared ! (Battles among the dishes at table. — Mother 
Carey retires up, r. c.) 

Enter David, c. 

David. The boat's sawing her rope across the rock. 
Quick, or she'll be adrift ! 

Larry. Ay, ay, sir ! [Exit, C. 

David. There's a yacht beating around the point ; no 
time to spare ; yet she's quick, and I think will make it. 
That girl, Bess Starbright, has put off in her wherry, fear- 
less -of danger, to lend a helping hand. How is this, girl, 
the table not cleared ? 
8 



114 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Biddy. Indade, sir, I couldn't help it. Mother Carey 
here was tilling my fortune jist. 

David. Ah, Mother Carey, still at your old tricks, de- 
ceiving the credulous with your boasted power. Out on 
you, silly old fool ! Girl, bring a light ! 

Biddy. To be sure I will. [Exit, r. 

Mother C. Better a fool than a knave, David 
Murray. 

David. What's that? 

Mother C. Boasted power ! David Murray, you 
sneer, but I have the power to drive the flush from your 
cheek, to make your knees tremble, and your heart 
quake with fear, silly old fool that I am. I deceive ! You 
say this ! you, whose whole life is a deliberate lie ! 

David. What know you of me? 

Mother G. Look. (Takes cup from table.) What 
see you here? 

David. Pshaw ! that's an old trick, Mother Carey. 

Mother G. What see you here ? 

David. Nothing ; an empty cap. 

Mother C. You're right ; an empty cup : yet as I look 
into it, David Murray, it fills with tiny clouds that float 
and roll together ; now expand, divide, and vanish, dis- 
closing a picture of the past. A room luxuriantly fur- 
nished. On a bed lies an old man, thin, pale, wasted 
with fever. His eyes are fastened upon a young man, 
who watches at his side. He is dying. See! a door 
opens ; a figure appears, in form and features so like the 
old man, 'tis plain it is his son. He approaches the 
bed. The dying man's face flushes. He starts 'up, 
raises his hand, as though he would bless — No, no, that 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 115 

angry gesture ! it is a curse, a bitter curse ! and now he 
falls back dead — dead — dead. 

David (agitated). Woman, or fiend! where learnt 
you this? 

Mother C. (still gazing into the cup). Silence! The 
clouds gather again — thicker — thicker — thicker — 
and now they separate and vanish. There's the son. 
again. A woman clings about his neck, begging, en- 
treating, praying. Useless ; there's an evil look in his 
eye, a wicked purpose in his heart. He pushes her 
away. Again — prayers, entreaties. Wretch! accursed 
wretch ! She is his wife ; but, with a horrid oath, he 
turns and fells her to the ground ! 

David (agitated). Ha, ha! paint away, old Mother 
Dragon! Your pictures begin, and end as they began, 
in smoke. Well, what next? 

Mother C. Again they gather — thicker — thicker 
— thicker. Again they roll away and vanish. Ah, 'tis 
the other now — the young man who closed the eyes of 
the dying. 

David (aside). Bruce Hunter ! 

Mother C. He sits beside a cradle. In it sleeps a 
child — a pretty little girl, rosy cheeks, long lashes, curly 
hair. How pretty she is ! The man rises, listens, then 
leaves the room. Now a window opens ; a man appears ; 
his face is hidden by a veil. He stealthily approaches 
the cradle ; raises the child in his arms. Heavens ! 
where is the father? He moves towards the window. 
Now he stops, listens, then raises the veil. I see his 
face. Merciful Heaven ! it is — 

David (dashing the cup from her hand). Fool! no 



116 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

more of your jugglery ! Away ! Home, and paint 
pictures in your own tea-cups. Spread them before 
women weak enough to listen to the ravings of a 
crazy old fool. 

Mother C. Crazy. Right, David, I am crazy. My 
brain snapped one night, long, long ago, and so I'm 
crazy ; ha, ha ! You've read much, David, though you 
are but a poor lightkeeper. You remember the story 
of the old archer who went mad when the noble de- 
stroyed his daughter. They laughed at his ravings, 
but they found that when he bent his bow his arrow 
flew straight to the mark. Poor, old, crazy archer ! 
I'm just like him, David, crazy, as you say, but my 
arrows always fly straight to the mark, straight to the 
mark. [Exit, c. 

Enter Biddy, r., with a candle, which she places on 
table, and carries dishes off, r., leaving a pitcher of water 
and two tumblers on table, 

David {pacing the stage) . Who is this woman ? 
After fifteen years' silence, has an avenging Heaven 
put into the mouth of an old hag daggers to pierce my 
conscience ? Is she a witch ? My father's death-bed — 
my deserted wife — Hunter's child — she saw them all. 
They came at her call ; faded at her bidding. Wretch 
that I am, I can conjure them, but they never disap- 
pear, — never. Yet I was right. The old man wronged 
me ; cut me off from the possession of his wealth — 
mine by right. My wife offended me with her re- 
proaches and entreaties ; and Hunter, curse him, robbed 
me of a father's love; coiled his flattering tongue about 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 117 

the old man's heart, and, like a spaniel, licked his way 
to favor. What should have been mine became his. 
He, the pauper's son, slipped into my inheritance. 
But I was revenged. I snatched his darling from her 
cradle fifteen years ago, and since that time father 
and child have never met. Yonder breakers, with their 
angry voices, tell no tales ; and yet I dare not face 
them, for on their crests I've seen amid the storm the 
features of a little child, with sad, sad eyes, come and 
go, come and go. O Heavens ! if I could but shut out 
that sight, close those eyes that haunt me everywhere. 
Revenge is sweet, indeed, but remorse is terrible to 
bear. (Sits on bench, l., and covers his face ivith Ms 
hands. — Knock at door, c. ; a -pause; knock again. 
The door opens, and Scud sticks his head in.) 

Scud. Am anybody to home, hey? (Enters, with 
a lunch-basket on his arm.) Not a soul. Eberybody 
gone a fishin'. (Sees David.) No, dar's an individle in 
solitary connection. (Steps up, and touches him on 
sltoulder. David looks up.) Yes, sir, ax yer pardon, 
sir. Am de lady ob de house disumgaged ? 

David. The lady of the house ? There is none. 

Scud. Shoo ! what dat? no lady? Well den, whar's 
de widderer? 

David. The what? 

Scud. De widderer, ob coorse ; dar iva.s a lady ob de 
house, — nebber heerd ob a house w T idout one, — and 
if she's gone, ob coorse she's left a widderer ; one ob dem 
fellers wid a bumbezine round his stovepipe, moaning, 
in de words ob de sublime poet, — 

" She has left me here for to shed a tear, 
And play on de old jawbone." 



118 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

David. There's no lady, uo widower. I am the master 
here. Who are you? and what do you want? 

Scud. Who are I? Shoo! don't you know me? 
Frought eberybody knew me. Why, I'm Scud, de capn's 
right bower. 

David. Then spades are trumps. Well, who's the 
captain? 

Scud. Who's de what? Bless my soul, whar you 
bin ! Don't know de cap'n ! Well, well, de igromance 
ob some people am surprisin'. Why, de cap'n ob de 
Pacer, de fastest yacht on de coast. You see, Mr. — Mr. 
— what might I call you ? 

David. You might call me Sir — that's respectful. 

Scud. Yaas, exactly. Well, den, Mr. — Mr. — Sar — 
Mr. Sar, you see we was out in de bay, we was, me, and 
de capin, and Massa Clarence, and Miss Daze, and de 
yacht, when, by golly, afore we knowed it, up rolled de 
brack clouds, and de wind blowed four ways to once — 
north-east, sow-west, and — and — well I forgot de oder 
pints, — and so we let go de jib, and de formast, and de 
main truck, and de windlass, and de mizzen — mizzen — 
somethin', — let 'em all go, and den, by golly, dem ar 
winds jist took dat ar yacht and laid her clear up onto 
de beach down dar. 

David. Ha ! Remarkable gale. 

Scud. Wan't it? Dat's jest what I tole de cap'n. 
Cap'n, says I — 

David. No matter what you told the cap'n. What 
do you want here ? 

Scud. Hey? Jes want to stay here all night. 

David. Well, stay, if you can sleep on the floor. That's 
all the accommodation you'll get here. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 119 

Scud. Shoo ! sleep on de flo' ! What, Massa Clar- 
ence, and Miss Daze, and de cap'n? Why, dey cotch 
dar def a cold. 

David. You don't mean to say your whole boat load 
will quarter on me? 

Scud. Dat's jes what I mean. Golly, you wouldn't 
go for to leab us all out onto de rocks to be devoured by 
de wild beasts ob de sea, and — and de skeeters — would 
yer? (Knock at door, c.) Here dey am. (Throws 
open door.) Walk right in, gemblems and ladies. 

Enter Clarence, c, with Miss Daze leaning on his 
arm. — Seats her in chair, L. 

Clarence. You succeeded in finding shelter, Scud. 
Scud. Yaas, sir ; take a cheer, sir. 

Enter Hunter, c. 

Hunter. Good. Any port in a storm. 

David (starting up. — Aside). Bruce Hunter ! and be- 
neath my roof! 

Scud. Yaas, sar ; found a port, sure nuff. Dis am de 
master, Mr. — Mr. — Sar. 

Hunter. I trust you will excuse this intrusion, my 
friend. The storm overtook us, and we were forced to 
land. This seems to be the only house on the point at- 
tached to the light. 

David (assuming a rough manner, and with his bach to 
Hunter). Yes, cap'n, this is the lightkeeper's house, 
and I am the keeper. Not much of a place, as you see. 
You're welcome to what's here. There's no beds, nor 
nothing to eat, so make yourself comfortable. (Turns 
up stage.) 



120 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Hunter. Thank you, friend, we will do our best. 
Beds we can do without for one night ; as for edibles, 
Scud is our commissary. 

Scud. Dat's a fac, sure's yer born, cap'n. I toted de 
lunch-box along. We'll soon fix 'em all right. {Goes 
to table, opens basket, and takes out plates, saucers, and 
food.) 

Hunter. Friend, will you eat with us ? 

David {fiercely). Eat with you? {Changes.) No, 
I'm obliged to you, I'm not hungry. I must look to my 
light. {Goes to door, c. — Aside.) Eat with him! 
Never ! The food would choke me. [_Exit, c. 

Hunter. Our host seems anything but sociable. 

Clar. A rough customer. Scud, what did you say to 
him ? I'm afraid you were rough spoken. 

Scud. Shoo ! I? Why, Massa Clarence, I's a lamb. 
I jes axed him if de lady ob de house, or de widderer, 
was to home, and tole him we was comin' — dat's all. 

Clar. Ah, Scud, you should polish up your manners. 
You'll never lose anything by politeness. You should 
have flattered him a little. 

Scud. Flattered him ? By golly, he'd a flattened me 
in a jiffy, I tole yer. 

Clar. You don't understand. You should have 
praised his house, the neatness of this room, his appear- 
ance, before proffering your request. In such a situation 
as this a little tact goes a great way. 

Scud. Yaas, sar. Some ob de hard tact in dis yer 
basket been goin' free or four voyages. 

Hunter. Ha, ha ! Clarence, your lesson will be 
thrown away upon Scud. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 121 

Clar. The squall has driven us iuto queer quarters, 
father. 

Hunter. No matter, my boy, as long as we are not 
driven among the breakers, we should be thankful we 
have escaped the storm. {Lightning.) Ah, here it 
comes. {Thunder. ) 

Minnie (with a drawl). I declare, Uncle Chawles, this 
is positively delightful. So romantic ! to be swept along 
by the fury of the blast, lashed by the heaving billows, 
tossed like a tiny chip at the will of the sportive winds, 
and at last left like shipwrecked mariners upon a deso- 
late island. 

Scud. Dat's a fac, an' a disolute lighthouse-keeper a 
growlin' into cle bargain. (Lightning, thunder, and rain.) 

Hunter. Not so bad as that, Minnie. We have seen 
at least one inhabitant. It's too bad to deprive you of 
a pleasant sail, and, what's worse, coudemn you to pass 
the night in this desolate house. 

Minnie. Now don't, Uncle Chawles. I do so love 
adventure. This is just for all the world like a novel. 
Let me see, what shall we call it — " The Castaway 
Yachters?" 

Clar. Or " The Drenched Duck." 

Hunter. With you as the heroine, Minnie. 

Minnie. No, I escaped that. How can you, Uncle 
Chawles, break all my pretty bubbles of romance with 
your sarcasm. 

Hunter. I beg your pardon, Minnie, if I broke any- 
thing. Let's all break fast ; that will offend nobody. 
Ready, Scud? 

Scud. Yes, sar ; dar's biled chicken, biled ham. 



122 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

biled tongue, hard biled eggs — eberyting but biled 
taters — and dar's — 
Bess (outside, sings). 

" A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 
And a wind that follows fast, 
And fills the wide and rustling sail, 
And bends the gallant mast." * 

There, mind your steps, messmate ; here, give me your 
hand. Now, a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull 
all together. Here we are, in port at last. (Door 
opens, c. — Lighting upon Bess an instant in the door- 
way, then she enters, followed by Paragraph. — Thunder 
and rain.) 

Paragraph (shutting up his umbrella). The heavens be 
praised ! 

Bess. Here, Mr. Murray, I've brought you — Hallo ! 
strangers ! 

Hunter. Why, it's our old friend Paragraph. 

Paragraph. What ! the Hon. Bruce Hunter? Sir, yours 
respectfully. (Shake hands.) Master Clarence, yours 
truly. (Shake hands.) Miss Daze, one of the sweetest 
days of my life, yours devotedly. (Shake hands.) Scud, 
black cloud of the evening, how are you? (Scud 
grins.) 

Bess. Why, you seem to have fallen among friends. 

Paragraph. Exactly. Allow me — Hon. Bruce Hunter, 
Miss Bess Starbright, the rover of the seas ; Miss Minnie 
Daze, Miss Bess Starbright, the bright star of the bay ; Mr. 
Clarence Hunter, Miss Bess Starbirght, the preserver of 
this Paragraph. (All interchange greetings.) 

* Or any nautical song. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 123 

Scud (aside). Dat ar Paragraph ain't got no stop 
to it. 

Paragraph. And now stop. Business before pleasure. 
(Pulls out a note book, and ivrites.) " The storm spirit 
abroad. Terrific peril of our own correspondent. Afloat 
in a leaky boat. A wrecked writer and a spunky 
heroine. Peril and privation. Rescue and relief." 
How's that for a heading? 

Hunter. Heading for what, pray? 

Paragraph. The news column of The Roaring Ram- 
page, of which highly influential journal I am the duly 
accredited roving correspondent. 

Minnie. Why, bless me, Mr. Paragraph, last week 
you were an artist. 

Paragraph. Exactly, last week, as you say ; this week, 
genius has taken a new flight. Literature is above art. 
Consequently I have dropped the brush, and taken up 
the pen. All day I have been in search of an item. This 
morning I heard of a prize fight, and hastened to report 
it. Reached the ground, placed myself in a capital posi- 
tion to witness the set-to, when I was ignominiously 
hustled from the ground by friends of the contending par- 
ties. Then rushed off to report a dog fight, but, alas ! 
the dogs wouldn't fight, but flew among the spectators, 
and I hurriedly left. Then I took a boat to board an 
incoming steamer. Boat leaked, squall came on, boat 
upset ; clung to the keel until succor, in the shape of that 
dear little girl with the tarpaulin hat, tore me from my 
frail support and landed me here, wet, hungry, and minus 
the news. Bless her, she's a trump. I was a foregone 
conclusion, a Paragraph cut short, but for her. Hence- 
forth I am her slave. 



124 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Bess (seating herself on box, L. a). Well, I never 
What a fuss about nothing. 

Paragraph. Nothing ? Hear her ; hear the bold rover of 
the seas. To have saved the life of Peter Paragraph she 
calls nothing. 

Bess. Why, bless you, Mr. What's-your-narne, I have 
pulled twenty fellows out of the water in the last ten 
years. It's no trouble. I was found in the water. Ever 
since I could pull an oar, I've had a boat and lived on the 
water. I know every inch of the coast, every turn of the 
weather, the depth of every part of the bay, and when I 
see a boat in distress, what more natural than for rue to 
put out. Pooh ! there's no danger ; it's just fun. 

Hunter. Your hand, my brave girl. You have saved 
our friend, and, though you treat the matter lightly, 'tis 
a stout heart that would brave the storm in such a cockle 
shell as yours. 

Paragraph. My sentiments exactly. Miss Starbright, 
such heroism as yours deserves reward. (Kneeling.) 
Here on my knees I offer you my hand. 

Bess. Your hand? What for? I don't need it. I 
can climb trees like a squirrel, pull ten miles without 
rest — what do I want of your hand. 

Paragraph. But you do not understand. I'm rich. 
I can place you in a situation where pulling and climbing 
are not necessary. I offer you my hand in marriage. 

Bess. Marriage ! Ha, ha, ha ! that's too good. You 
marry me — Mother Carey's chicken? 

Paragraph. Yes, were you Mother Carey's old rooster, 
I'd marry you. 

Bess. Ha, ha, ha ! Q, take him away, somebody, 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 125 

do ! Ha, ha, ha ! I shall die, I know I shall ! Every 
man I pull out of the water wants to marry me ; but as 
soon as their clothes are dry, off they go, and " never 
come back, never come back, they never come back 
to me." I say, Mr. Paragraph, don't let's talk of mar- 
riage. If you're my slave, find me something to eat. 
I'm awful hungry. 

Hunter. Here's plenty. (Hunter, Clarence, and 
Paragraph run to table, take plate of lunch, and crowd 
around Bess.) 

Hunter f Allow me, a slice of tongue. 

Paragraph )-toget\ier.\ Allow me, a slice of ham. 

Clarence J I Allow me, a little cold chicken. 

Bess. La ! how polite ! But I can't eat it all, you 
know. {Looks at Clarence. — Aside.) O, my ! what 
a splendid fellow ! {Aloud, to Clarence.) Thank you, 
I'm very fond of chicken. {Takes plate from him. — 
Hunter and Paragraph return to table. — Clarence 
seats himself beside Bess on the box.) 

Minnie {aside). Heroism has won the day. They 
have quite forgotten poor me. {Aloud.) Ahem ! i" am 
very fond of cold chicken. 

Paragraph {going to her with plate). Good gracious ! 
has nobody thought of you? (Hunter sits at table, and 
eats.) 

Minnie. Thanks. 'Tis sweet to be remembered, even 
by a false one. 

Paragraph. False one? {Aside.) What have I done? 
A year ago I offered her my hand, which she accepted, 
— and to-day, in her presence, I've gone and offered it 
to this sea nymph. It's bigamy — circumstantial bigamy. 
{Aloud.) My dear Minnie — 



12G AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Minnie. No, I'm not your dear Minnie. You are 
false. We have plighted vows together, and you've 
broken them before my eyes. 

Paragraph. No, no. I must show my gratitude to 
the preserver of my life, you know, and what more nat- 
ural than to " offer her this hand of mine." She didn't 
take it, and I shan't offer it again. But you, you are 
the ideal of my soul, the loadstone of my existence, the 
object of my adoration ! dearer to my heart than — 

Scud {comes down with plate). Biled ham, Miss 
Daze? 

Minnie. No, I thank you, Scud. (Scud retires up.) 
O, Peter, you know my weakness for cultivated society. 
I thought you would take your place among noble artists. 
I find you have changed. You have taken to literary pur- 
suits. At the first mention of new aspirations, my heart 
fluttered and I pictured a bright future for you among the 
noble wielders of the classic pen, but with one blow you 
have dashed my hopes, and I find you false as the fickle 
moon, as hard-hearted as — 

Scud {coming down with plate). Biled eggs, Miss 
Daze? 

Minnie. No, I thank you, Scud. (Scud returns to 
table.) 

Paragraph. Don't, Minnie, don't. You'll break my 
heart. Do not spurn me for a thoughtless jest. You 
alone are my own dear, loved, tender — 

Scud {coming down with plate). Chicken, Massa Par- 
agraph ? 

Paragraph. Confound it, no ! Go away with your 
senseless bawbles. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 127 

Scud. Bawbles? Yes, I guess not, Massa Para- 
graph. It's chick'n ; cook 'im myself. Have some, 
Miss Starbright? 

Bess. No, I thank you, Mr. Scud. I'm very well 
settled. 

). Misser Scud! Now d'er's a lady. 
Bress her bright eyes, and hansom' as a picter. Jes 
look at Massa Clarence ! He's smashed, clean gone. 
Settled — golly, she's settled him sure miff. (Returns to 
table.) 

Clarence. But, Miss Starbright. 'tis but a rough life 
after all. Our ladies in the city find their enjoyment in 
the dance, the ride, the care of flowers, needlework, and 
other delicate and refining pastimes. Here you have 
no company save the rough sailors and fishermen of the 
coast. Here you are out of the world. 

Bess. You think so? Why, this place is a world in 
itself. Before us is the wide ocean ; behind, smooth 
plains ; beyond that, the hills, with their wooded fronts ; 
here around us, the bold headland, the jutting point, roar- 
ing breakers and rippling waves, jagged rocks and smooth 
beach ; above, the heavens, now studded with stars, anon 
sombre and black, or cut by swift lightnings. All forms 
of nature centre here. There's much of the awful, and 
much of the sublime. Yet 'tis the dearest spot on earth, 
for 'tis my home. Rough is the life I lead, 'tis true, but 
here are no temptations to assail ; and I've one true heart 
on which to lean — could I ask for more ? 

Clarence. Jndeed, but 'tis a blessed spot, and, as you 
picture it, it seems like a magic realm, one of those 
fabled grottos, made to enclose a priceless gem, for 



128 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

whose possession princes strove. Here you are the gem. 
May I not be the prince ? 

Bess (aside). I never met such a splendid fellow, 
O, dear ! and he'll go away to-morrow. (Aloud.) Hark ! 
What's that? 

Mother C. (outside). Bess! Bess! my child ! 

Bess (starting up). O, there's my mother! Here, 
mother, here. 

Enter Mother Carey, c. — Bess runs into her arms. 

Mother C. Safe, safe, my child ! 'Twas a rough gale. 
I feared for your safety. 

Bess. Never fear for me, mother. My boat is tight, 
and my arms are strong. Come, let me introduce you 
to my new friends. (Situation : Clarence seeded on 
the bench, l. Mr. Hunter stands talking with him. 
Miss Daze, r. Paragraph talking with her. Scud 
at table, putting away food. Bess and Mother Carey, 
c.) Mr. Hunter? 

Hunter. Well, Miss Bess? 

Bess. My mother. 

Mother G. (grasping Bess, and glaring cd Hunter). 
No, no ! not that name ! Hunter ! (Aside.) What 
does he here? Have the wolf and the lamb met at 
last, 

Bess. Don't mind her, sir. The sight of a new face 
is very apt to agitate her. 

Hunter. Very glad to meet you, madam, to tell you 
how much we owe your brave daughter. 

Mother G. Yes, Bess is a good girl. A daughter to 
be proud of. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 129 

Bess. Now don't make me blush, mother. Mr. Hun- 
ter and his party were driven ashore. They are to pass 
the night here. 

Mother G. Here beneath this roof? Better the cold 
sands for a bed, the heavens for a shelter, than this 
place. 

Hunter. TVhat mean you? 

Mother C. Show me your hand. 

Bess. Mother is a fortune-teller, Mr. Hunter. She is 
called, by the good people who visit here, a witch. I 
can assure you she sometimes makes wonderful proph- 
ecies. 

Scud. A witch ! O Lord ! she takes de kink right 
out ob my har. 

Hunter. My good woman, I have very little faith in 
predictions, yet here's my hand, if you wish. 

Mother G. (taking his hand). A good hand. There's 
fortune here. Fame, too, — the lines straight, dis- 
tinct, — but here's a dark line I like not — a vein of 
trouble among the fortunate lines. There's a lifelong 
pain at your heart. Am I not right ? 

Hunter. You are. Fifteen years ago I lost a daugh- 
ter — stolen from her cradle. 

Mother C. And never found? 

Hunter. Never. 

Mother G. And yet you know the thief? 

Hunter. I do. 

Mother C. An enemy? 

Hunter. The only enemy I ever had ; and he one 
whom I never wronged by deed or word. 

Mother C. Have you ever searched for him? 



130 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Hunter. Every effort was made to find the child 
and the kidnapper, but all in vain, and at last I came 
to think that, out of his deep revenge, he had de- 
stroyed the child and himself. 

Mother C. You're wrong. The child still lives ; will 
be restored. 

Hunter. Still lives? How know you this? 

Mother C. I read it in your hand. 

Hunter (snatching aivay his hand). Pshaw! An 
idle trick. Woman, 'tis wrong to trifle with tender 
emotions. But, 'tis your trade. 

Mother C. My trade ! Man, the knowledge I pos- 
sess has been acquired by hard experience, and patient 
study of the ways of life. I tell you, he who so 
wronged you is travelling towards you, as you, all un- 
wittingly, are nearing him. As sure as the sun shines, 
as the winds blow, as the waves beat upon yonder 
rocks, you will meet, and, in that meeting, I foretell 
happiness for you, defeat and destruction for him. 
Mark me, Mother Carey tells you this — and her proph- 
ecies never fail, never. 

Clarence. Let me try my luck, father. 

Mother C. Father? Who spoke then? 

Clarence (coming, c). 'Twas I, mother. Read my 
hand, and tell me my fate. 

Moihtr C. (puts her arm over his shoulder, takes his 
hand, aiid leads him down). No, no, not the hand; 
let me read it in your face — fresh, open, honest; a 
face the mother should be proud to look upon. I can 
easily foretell your fortune — a bright, brave, happy 
life. Your mother — 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 131 

Clarence, Alas ! she died when I was very young. 

Mother C. Too young to remember her? 

Clarence, No, mother. There's just a glimpse of a 
loving face fastened upon my memory, which my 
father's praises of her goodness have fashioned into an 
indefinable presence, that is always with me, acting on 
my life, keeping me from wrong, and aiding me with 
high aspirations, a radiant image so pure and bright 
that in my heart I call it by the tender name of 
mother. 

Mother G. (with emotion). Bless you, my boy. 
Doubt not, wherever she is, whether in this world or 
the unseen, her love still guides and guards your life. 
(Clarence retires up stage.) 

Hunter {comes dozen, c. — Aside). Now to test her 
power. (Aloud.) Mother, the boy called me father. 

Mother C. He was right. You have reared, pro- 
tected, loved him — what though the tie of birth be 
wanting? — the boy is right. 

Hunter (aside). She is a witch. (Aloud.) But, 
the mother? 

Mother G. Ask me no more. My brain grows 
weary, and the thoughts of wrong and outrage make 
my soul sick. What I have told you will come to 
pass. Be content, and wait as I have waited. (Goes 
to door, c.) The wronger and the wronged shall meet, 
and when they do, remember Mother Carey's prophecy. 

[Exit, c. 

Scud. By golly, she's gone off on a broomstick. 

Bess. Well, I must be getting home. (Puts on 
hat.) 



132 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Clarence. Let me accompany you. 

Bess. I'm not a bit afraid ; and besides, haven't I 
got a beau already. Here's Mr. Paragraph. He'd be 
mortally offended if I should slight him. 

Clarence. O, no, he wouldn't mind it. You see 
he's very busy with Miss Daze. He's engaged to her. 

Bess. What? Engaged to her? Why, he offered 
himself to me a little while ago. I'll put a stop to 
that. Ahem ! Mr. Paragraph ? 

Paragraph (turns to c. of stage). Well, Miss Star- 
bright? 

Bess. A glass of water, if you please. 

Clarence. Let me — 

Bess. Stop ! Mr. Paragraph is my t admirer, I may 
say, my affianced husband, as he offered himself to 
me, and I did not refuse him. Mr. Para — ah ! Peter 
— a glass of water. 

Paragraph. Yes. O Lord ! the little jade's in ear- 
nest. Yes, Miss Bess. Hot or cold? 

Bess. Cold for me, (Aside.) Hot for you, I guess. 

Paragraph. Yes, I go. (Starts for table.) 

Minnie. Peter ! 

Paragraph. Well, dear? (Returns to Minnie.) 

Minnie. A glass of water for me first. 

Paragraph. Certainly. (Going to table.) 

Bess. Peter ! 

Paragraph (returning). Well, Miss Bess? 

Bess. I shall expect to be served first. 

Paragraph. Yes, marm. (Goes to table; fills two 
glasses ; comes clown, c. ; looks at Minnie, then at Bess ; 
stands irresolute a moment, then starts for Minnie.) 



AMONG THE BREAKER. 133 

Bess. Peter ! 

Paragraph. 0, yes, certainly! (Turns to Bess.) 

nie. Peter! 

Paragraph, Coming, dear. (Turns to Minnie.) 

B ss, I protest. (Paragraph starts for Bess.) 

Minnie. I insist. (Paragraph turns to Minnie.) 

JTin n ie. ) ^ . , 
> Peter ! 
Bess. ) 

Paragraph (stands in C. of stage, falls on one knee, 
and stretches out his hands containing the glasses to 
Bess. e.. to Minnie, l.) ,; Pity the sorrows of a poor 
young man." Ladies, help yourselves. 

Minnie (jumps up). You're a false, deceitful man, 
and I'll never speak to you again. (Goes up stage.) 

Bess (jumps up). Very well, Mr. Paragraph, I re- 
lease you from your engagement. The next time you 
are shipwrecked, don't expect me to save you. Come, 
Mr. Clarence, as he who should be my protector has de- 
serted me, I will permit you to see me home. Good 
night, all. (At door, c.) Peter ! 

Paragraph (still on his knees). Miss Bess ! 

Bess. " Henceforth I am your slave." Ha, ha, ha ! 
You make a capital fountain. Good by, (Exit, c, fol- 
lowed by Clarence.) 

Paragraph (rising). Betwixt two stools I fall to the 
ground. Here, Scud. 

Scud. Yaas, Mass a Paragraph. 

Paragraph (handing him a glass). Join me in a toast. 
Here's to 4 * woman's rights," 

<; To torture and tease. 
To do just as they please." 

[Drinks ; retires up. 



134 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Scud. Yaas, Mas sa Paragraph, eber y time. (Drinls.) 
(Aside.) By golly, dey jes cook his goose. (Retires up.) 

Enter Larry, r. 

Larry. Beg yer pardin, ladies and gints. Would be 
afther takin' a look at the lighthouse? The rain's 
stopped, and it's only a stip. 

Minnie. O, yes! Uncle Chawles, I should like to 
see the interior of a lighthouse. 

Hunter. And so would I. What say you, Para- 
graph ? 

Paragraph. Lighthouse? Yes, there's a chance for 
an item there. 

Larry. Thin follow me. (Sees Scud.) Hullo, 
nagar ! 

Scud. Hallo, paddy ! 

Larry. Begorra, ye's so black and shiny, I thought 
'twis the avil one ! 

Scud. By golly, yer fool ! Does you tink Ps a lookin'- 
glass ? 

Larry. Ugh ! blarney ! [Exit, C. 

Scud. " Shoo, fly ; don't bodder me!" 

Hunter. Come, Minnie. (Gives her his arm, and 
exit, c.) 

Paragraph. She turns her back upon me without a 
word, and goes off to the light, perhaps to make light 
of me. Peter, my boy, you've been a fool. Let this be 
a warning to you. Never make love to a woman when 
another's in sight. [Exit, c. 

Scud. Shoo ! Triborlat'n am a comin' sartin sure ! 
Dar's a Hibernicum in de house, and de nat'ral antipidies 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 135 

ob de African persuas'n for clem ar fellers is a risin in de 
intestines ob dis yer bnzzira ! Who be he am? Hey? 
What ? De brack blood ob forty-leben ginnyologies ob 
ancisters and ancisteresses cries, Away, white trash ! Dar 
ain't no asswassiation to be fright ob. I'll jes tell de cap'n. 
Whar's de towel? Can't put away de plates widout 
wipin' um, and I ain't got no towel. 

Enter Biddy, l. 

Biddy. Where's Misther Larry ? (Sees Scud.) 0, 
my sowl and body, who's that? 

Scud. I want — I want — Stop, Scud. Massa 
Clarence tole yer to be 'ticlarly polite. Dis am de gal 
what hab de towels. See me ! now, see me ! (Lays his 
hand on his heart, bows several times, and approaches 
Biddy.) Sublimest ob your sexes ! 

Biddy. Howld yer blarney jist. It's ashamed I am 
uv the loikes uv yer. 

Scud. When I look at yer, it seem jes as if chahorse 
am come agin. 

Biddy. Sure, I don't know wdio's coom, at all, at all. 

Scud. You hab de peach-blow on yer cheek — 

Biddy. Will, I don't know what ye mane. 

Scud. De wermillion hues ob de sunflower kermingle 
dar. 

Biddy. Troth, I belave he's a gorrilla. 

Scud. And de light ob affliction am in yer eye. 

Biddy. O, away wid ye's ! It's hathen Chinee yer 
talk'n, jist. Where's Misther Larry? 

Scud. Sweetest ob de female persuasion, what you 
ax me? 



136 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

, Biddy. Where's Misther Larry, stupid ? 
Scud. Mister Larry Stupid am gone away. Listen 
to me. Gib me what I ax yer. (Falls on both knees, 
facing audience.) Gib me, angeliferous creture, O^ gib 
me — (Takes her hand.) 

Enter Larry, c. 

Biddy. Quit ahoult uv my haud ! 

Scud. Don't be skeered ; it's only peliteness ; and I ax 
yer, gib me, O, gib me — (Larry creeps up behind, 
takes him by the nape of the neck, and shakes him.) 

Larry. Ye thafe of the worrld. (Shake.) Ye black 
hathen ! (Shake.) 

Scud. Here, you up dar ! Wha — wha — what yer 
'bout dar? 

Larry. Troth, ye'll soon find out. (Shake.) Ye 
blackguard ! 

Scud. Look hyar, Hibernicum ; quit foolin', quit 
foolin'. 

Larry. What d'ye mane by insultin' the swatest girl 
in Fairpoint ? 

Biddy. Och, it's blushin' I am, Masther Larry. 

Scud. You jes lef dat ar coat alone, or I'll tell yer 
mudder. 

Larry. I'll break ivery bone in yer augly carcass, so 
I will. (Shake.) 

Scud. You jes lef me be, dat's all. Dis am a free 
country. 

Larry. An' this is a fray fight. Now, nagar, ye'll 
ax the parthin uv Miss Biddy Bane — d'ye mind? 

Scud. Well, I ax it. Lef me be, now. 



AMONG TIIE BREAKERS. 137 

Larry. An' say, I'm a black — 

Scud. You're a brack — 

Larry. What's that? You repate afiher me. I'm a 
black — 

Scud. Dat's what I said. You're a brack — 

Larry (shaking him). Will yer mind what I say? 

Scud. Quit, you fool ! quit, you fool ! I'm a brack — 

Larry. Ogly, mischievous owld darkey ! — 

Scud. Ugly, Miss Cbeever's old darkey ! — 

Larry. An' diserve a kickin', so I do ! — 

Scud. And deserve a kickin', so I do ! 

Larry. Now git up, an' if iver I fiud ye's demaning 
yersilf afore this illigent crather, I'll break ivery bone in 
yer ogly, black carkiss, so I will. 

Scud (rising). Look hyar, Ilibernicum ! De day ob 
triberlation am a comin' ! You jes look out, dat's all. 
Mind what I say, de day ob triberlation am a comin', and 
Scud am a comin', too. 

Larry. Howld yer»pate, ye black son uv a gun. 

Enter Hunter, c, with Minnie. 

Hunter. Hallo ! what's the matter here? 

Scud. NuffiD, Massa Cap'n. I was axin de lady for 
a towel — dat's all. 

Larry. An' he got a wipe uv anither kind — hey, 
Biddy? 

Enter David, C, with bla?ilcets on his arm. 

David. I'll do the best I can for you, captain. Your 
friend I've already disposed of for the night in the light- 
house. There's a room above for the lady, a small room 



138 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

there for the boy; here's a bench and blanket for yon. 
Your servant can go to the light with Larry. Sorry I 
can't do better. 

Hunter. Say no more, friend. We shall get along 
very comfortably. 

David, Biddy, show the lady to her room. 

Biddy. To be sure I will, and make her comfortable, 
too. This wa; , my lady. [_Exit, r. 

Minnie. Good night, Uncle Chawles. Don't be 
anxious about me. I shall sleep soundly, never fear — 
it's so romantic. \_Exit, r. 

Hunter. Good night, Minnie. Well, Scud, you're 
assigned quarters in the light. 

Larry. I'll take care of him, sir. Come along, Scud. 
I'll find a soft plank and a comfortable shake down 
for ye's. 

Scud. Yes, I guess not. Had jes enough ob yer 
shake downs. By golly, my teeth am all droppin' 
out me. 

Hunter. Go with him, Scud. He'll take good care 
of you. 

Larry. That's thrue for ye, sir. 

Scud. Well, lead on, Hibernicum. Dar's alius a 
tlam afore de storm, but de day ob triberlation am a 
tomin'. \Exit Larry and Scud, c. 

David. The. room in there is very small, so I advise 
you to give it to the boy, and keep this for yourself. 

Hunter. All right, friend. Hope I'm not turning you 
out of your own quarters. 

David. No ; my duties keep me in the light all night. 

Hunter. Bather a rough life you lead, friend. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 139 - 

David. Bather. Plenty of work, and poor pay. 

Hunter. You look like a man who has seen better 
days. 

David. Do I? "Well, perhaps I have, and perhaps 
I haven't. That's my business. I can tell you this, 
cap'n, I've tried to do the fair thing wherever I've been 
placed. Love my friends, and hate m^nemies. That's 
about the way of the world, and I'm no 1 etter or worse 
than the common run of mankind. You'll T^leep here — 
will you? 

Hunter. Yes, I'll stretch myself on that bench. 

David. Don't lock the door, for I have to pass in and 
out during the night. You sleep sound ? 

Hunter. Very. 

David. I'll try not to disturb you. Good night, and 
a long, refreshing sleep. [Exit, c. 

Hunter. Good night, friend. That woman's words 
ring in my ears. My child still lives. 0, would they 
were true. Where could she have learned so much. 
Paul Hunter and I meet again? Impossible. I wish I 
could drive such thoughts from my mind. They almost 
madden me. To feel the clasp of the dear one's arms 
about my neck, to hear her sweet voice speak the name 
of father, after so many years, would be a miracle. O, 
Paul Hunter, deep and terrible was your revenge upon 
an innocent head. Heaven forgive you, as I hope I do. 

Enter Clarence, c. 

Clarence. Well, father — back again, as you see. 
Hunter. And the sea nymph — safe at home ? 
Clarence. Yes. O, father, she is the sweetest, bright- 
est, dearest girl I ever met ! 



140 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Hunter. Hallo, boy ! Have you lost your heart? 

Clarence. Entirely gone, father. Do you know, I'd 
like to win that girl ; to make her my wife. 

Hunter. And why not? 

Clarence. Her station in life is very low. For my- 
self I would not care, but you would hardly like to take 
as a daughter one so poor and — 

Hunter. Tut, tut, boy ! I'd rather see you woo this 
brave girl, poor as she is, believing, as I do, she has a 
noble heart, a pure soul, and a loving disposition, than 
have you bring home as a wife the belle of the gay cir- 
cles of our city life. 

Clarence. Do you mean this ? 

Hunter. I do, my boy. I was once so poor that I 
dragged my half-starved body to your grandfather's 
door, and begged of him a crust of bread. That good 
old man took me in, fed me, clothed me, treated me as 
his own son, and when he died, left me all his wealth. 

Clarence. Treated you as his son ? left you his wealth ? 
'Twas yours by right. 

Hunter. No, Clarence, for I am not your father. 

Clarence. Not — my — father ? Mr. Hunter — 

Hunter. Clarence, to-morrow you are of age. Then 
I shall make disclosures which will startle you. To- 
morrow I shall place in your possession the title deeds 
of a large property — yours by right. I did not mean 
to speak of this now. Ask me no questions. To-mor- 
row you shall find that, though I am not your father, I 
have tried to be your friend. 

Cla.rence. Friend ! Heaven bless you for your kind- 
ness to me. You have indeed startled me. I know not 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 141 

what to think or say. Bat I will obey you, and be 
silent. 

Hunter, That's right. Now let's to bed. There's a 
little room which you will occupy. I shall sleep on this 

bench. Good night. 

Clarence. Good night, father. (Goes, L., and opens 
door.) Why, here's a comfortable room and a bed. I 
see here your fatherly care. You would give me a cosey 
nest, and take the hard couch for your bed. 

Hunter. The light-keeper told me it was only a closet. 
Why should he deceive me so? 

Clarence. Well, father, you take tke bed, and I'll 
take the bench. Nay, I insist. I could not sleep here, 
knowing you were not as comfortably provided for. 

Hunter. But, Clarence — 

Clarence. Nay, let me have my way. 'Tis perhaps 
the last request I shall make while I can call you father. 
(Takes candle from table.) Here, take the candle. I 
shall not need it. Good night, father. 

Hunter (takes candle). I do not like this, but you 
shall have your way. Good night, my boy. (They 
shake hands.) Heaven bless you. [_Exit, l. 

Clarence. Good night, kindest and best of friends. 
Not my father? Who is he, then? Who am I? This 
place seems the very abode of mystery. An unknown 
heroine, a witch, who startles even the cool, impenetrable 
Bruce Hunter, and then he with mysterious hints of 
secrets in my life. To-morrow I shall know all ; be 
wealthy owner of a large estate, and lose my father. I 
cannot fathom it. I'll to bed, and try to sleep. (Gropes 
his way to bench, l., on which are lying two blankets which 



142 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

David brought in; one he rolls up for a pillow, then lies 
down, covering himself with the other.) That long walk 
has made me sleepy. ( Yawns,) What a pleasant walk, 
and what a delightful girl — by no means ignorant. She's 
well read ; Mother Carey has reared her well — and then 
so captivating. Ah, me, if she were only mine ! I'll 
win her. Bess — Bess — what a pretty name. Bess 
Hunter — Mrs. Bess Hunter — (Yawns.) This sea 
air is a decided narcotic. Bess, — brave, lovely, capti- 
vating, — she's the treasure of the seas. Bess — Bess — 
Bess — (Sleeps. Lightning, thunder, rain.) 

Enter Scud, c, with a blanket. 

Scud. Rainin 5 like de debble ! Dat ar Hibernicum's 
a fo — fo — fool, dat's what he am. Gib me a soft plank 
on a stone floor ! No, sar ; not for Scud. I'll jes find a , 
soft plank hyar onto de bench. (Goes to bench.) Hallo ! 
By golly, dar's a lodger dar now. Shoo ! it's Massa 
Clarence. Whar's a soft plank? (Feels about the floor.) 
Hyar's one — jes a shade softer dan a slab. I'll retire 
here. (Lies down in front of the bench.) Dar's nuffin 
like a good crop ob wool onto de cranium when de pillers 
am all gone to de wash. Hallo ! what's dat ? More 
lodgers? (Lightning and thunder. Door, c, opens 
softly. Enter David, zuith a long knife in his hand.) 

David. He sleeps ! My enemy's at my mercy. 'Tis 
a cowardly act — a blow in the dark. But let me re- 
member my wrongs. Bruce Carter, son of a pauper, 
living in luxury ; I, the rightful owner of all he calls his 
own, living here like a dog. He must die. One sure 
blow, and we are quits. The breakers roar for prey. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 143 

Who so fit to feed them as lie? All sleep well. This 
knife shall find his heart. One plunge, and his body is 
in the waves. 

Scud. Dar's somebody in de house dat don't belong 
hyar, dat's sure enough. Wake up, Scud. Triberlat'n's 
a comin' ; I feel 'em in dem remarkable organs, my 
heels. (Sits up.) 

David (in c. of stage). Why do I falter? He is my 
enemy. Shall I spare him? If I lose this chance, with 
the light he will go, never to return. I must do it. 
(Lightning and thunder.) 

Scud (rising). By golly, dar's a man in de middle ob 
de floor wid a meat-axe ! Who's he comin' fur to go 
far ? (Eises.) 

David (creeping towards bench). Curse the knife ! 
How my hand trembles. 

Scud. Triberlat'n am a comin' ! I hyar 'im breave. 

David. Now for it. 

Scud (seizing him by throat). Nuffin hyar, butcher ! 
nufnn hyar ! 

David. Confusion! (They struggle.) 

Scud. Drop clat knife ! Hyar, cap'n ! Help ! mur- 
der ! Help ! help ! ( Wrests the knife from David, and 
throws him to R.) 

Enter Hunter, with lighted candle in one hand, pistol in 
the other. Clarence sits up, rubbing his eyes. 

David. Curse that black fiend ! 

Hunter. What's the matter, Scud? 

Scud. Murder — jes — almost — dat's what's de 
matter. Dat ar chap was gwine for Massa Clarence wid 
a knife, an' I went for dat chap, jes — dat's all. 



114 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Hunter. Murder- — Clarence! Short work for mur- 
derers. {Levels pistol at David. Lightning.) 

Enter Mother Carey, c. 

Mother G. (c). Hold, Bruce Hunter ! The man who's 
life is in your hands must not die. Look well at him 
'Tis Paul Hunter. 

Hunter {dropping pistol, and fcdling bach). Paul 
Hunter ! 

David {dashes past Scud towards Mother Carey). 
AVoman ! fiend ! you lie ! 

Scud {puts his arms through David's, and bends him 
over his knees). Hold on, old man ! Gib de old lady a 
chance, for triberlat'n's ar a comin' ! 

Mother G. Ha, ha ! Remember Mother Carey's 
prophecy. The wronger and the wronged shall meet. 
Happiness to one ; destruction to the other. Justice for 
both at last, — at last. {Lightning and thunder.) 

QUICK CURTAIN. 



Act II. — Scene. Same as in Act 1. Table, c. 
Chairs r. and L. of table. Bench, L. Arm-chair, R. 
L., near entrance, barrel with cover, large enough to 
comfortably contain Scud. 

Larry {sings, outside, c). 

" When first I saw swate Peggy, 
'Twas on a market day, 
On a low-backed car she sat and rode, 
Upon a truss of hay," &c. 

[Enters, C. 



AMONG TIIE BREAKERS. 145 

Och. it's an illtgant mornin', jist, an' it's dyin' I am for 
a sight iiy the lovely girl that's made me pass a slape- 
less night dramin' uv her. Where's the masther — I 
donno ? Xot once the night has he put his head in the 
light. Will, it's his onaisy sphirit kapes him a walkiu' 
an a walkin'. Ah, there's Biddy comin', as rosy as the 
clouds iv the mornin'. {Enter Biddy, with her hands 
full of dishes.) The top uv the mornin' to ye's, Biddy, 
ye jewel. 

Biddy. Ah, ha, Misther Larry, yer up betimes wicl 
ver compliments an' flatterm' spaches. 

Larry, To be sure I am. For it's little slape I have 
wid yer purty face forninst me an' the shlumbers of mid- 
night. Och, Biddy, darlint, won't ye's come for to go 
for to be my widely ? 

Biddy. Indacle, an' I'll be nobody's widely. If I'd not 
my hands full I'd box yer ears, so I would. 

Larry. Och, be aisy ! That's a dilicate way of axing 
ye's to be my wife. Hands full ! By that same token, 
Biddy, darlint, I'm just going to stale a kiss from your 
purty lips. 

Biddy. Indade, but yer not. Kape off, or I'll scratch 
ye's face, so I will. 

Larry. Wid yer hands full? Troth, but I'll jist thry 
that same. (Puts his arm round her waist.) 

Biddy (struggling). Away wid ye's ! 

Larry. Whin I've tasted the cherries uv yer lips. 
(They struggle. She drops the dishes. He hisses her. Cover 
of barrel is raised, and S cud's head appears.) 

Scud (aside). Dar's a smash. Stolen sweets, illus- 
trated wicl — wid — wid plates. (Disappears in barreL) 
10 



146 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Biddy. Now say what ye's done. Ye's broken the 
pace. 

Larry. Niver mind the paces. I'll make it all right 
wid the masther. 

Biddy (picking up pieces in her apron). The mas- 
ther is it? Och, Misther Larry, there's been avil work 
here the night. 

Larry (picking up pieces). Avil work? What d'ye 
mane, Biddy? 

Biddy. Whist ! I heard a hullabaloo, an' down here 
I cript, an' paked in at the door. An' there was the 
masther hild by the black cook, an' the cap'n wid a 
pisthol in his fist, an' owld Mother Carey a houldin' uv 
her broomstick, an' all talkin' an' talkin' togither some- 
thin' about a murther ; an' thin the owld lady scooted 
out uv the door, an' — an' they locked masther up in 
his room, an' — an' thin I jist crept off to bid. Och, 
but it's an avil place, jist ! 

Larry. A murther, an' the masther locked up? 
Bedad, I don't onderstand it at all, at all. 

Biddy. No more do I ; but I'll give warning the 
day, an' go back to my cousin, Bridget Blaney, so I 
will. 

Larry. An' lave yer own thrue Larry, that's dyin' 
for the love uv ye's? Biddy, come wid me to the praste 
beyant, an' be my own thrue wife. 

Biddy. Och, d'ye mane it, Misther Larry ? 

Larry. Mane it? Biddy, my darlint (puts his arm 
about her waist) , I'm a lonely Irishman, widout the con- 
veniences uv relations, a pinin' for the swates uv domes- 
tic life. Take me to ye's heart, for I'm cowld wid the 
hunger uv love that burns in my bosom. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 147 

Biddy. Troth, Misther Larry, yer a broth uv a boy, 
so ye are ; an', wid the praste's blessin', I'll be your own 
thrue wife, Biddy Bane. 

Larry {embracing her). Och, ye darlint, it's crazy I 
am wid the joy I fale. By the blissid St. Patrick, we'll 
be the happiest couple in the wide world. 

Biddy. That we will. Now let me go. The brick- 
fast's not riddy, an' the table's not laid. (Goes, R.) 

Larry. I say, Biddy ; like a thafe I stole a kiss (ap- 
proaching her) ; like an honorable gintleman I put it 
back. (Kisses her. Scud raises cover.) 

Biddy. Be aisy, Misther Larry. [Exit, R. 

Scud. 

" De monkey marred de baboon's sister, 
Smacked his lips, and den he kissed her." 

Shoo ! (Disappears.) 

Larry. She's a darlin', so she is. The masther's 
locked up in his room. Begorra, I'll jist do meself the 
favor to lit him out, an' set him fray. He's my own 
masther, an' if he's in throuble, Larry Divine's not the 
b'y to show him his back, jist. (Going, l.) 

Scud (throwing off cover, and standing up in the barrel). 
Stop dar, Hibernicum, stop dar ! Dis am a private way; 
it am dangerous trabellin'. 

Larry. Out uv that, ye hathen imp of blackness. 
Hould yer prate, or I'll break — 

Scud (pointing pistol) . What's dat ? "Who — who — 
who — who's a what ? Quit, yer fool ! quit, yer fool ! 
Dis yer am a deranged rebolber ; keeps goin' round an' 
goin' off, shootin' all de time. You can't go in dar. 



148 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Larry (retreating}. Put up that pistol. It might 
go off. 

Scud. Da's a fact, da's a fact. I tell yer, Hibernicum, 
triberlation am comin', sart'n sure. De tables am turned. 
Down on yer marrow bones dar, down on yer marrow 
bones ! 

Larry (kneeling). Scud, Masther Scud, ye jewel, be 
aisy wid the pisthol. 

Scud. Now yer jest mind what I say. Ain't got dis 
chile by de scruff ob de neck dis time. Now, mister, say 
what I tole ye. I'm a red-headed, meddlin', pugniferous 
Hibernicum. Say it — by golly, can't hold dis yer 
pistol. 

Larry. Yes, yes. I'm a rid-headed — by my sowl, 
I'll break — 

Scud. De pistol am goin'. 

Larry. I'm a rid-headed, middlin', pugnacious 
Mickey ! 

Scud. Da's a fact. Brack libbered, ugly — say it. 

Larry. Niver, ye thafe. 

Scud. It's goin', it's goin — can't hole him. 

Larry. I'm a black-livered — 

Scud. Da's a fact, da's a fact — scoundrel — say it. 

Larry. Scoundrel. (Aside.) That ye are. 

Scud. An' Massa Scud am a gentleman. Can't hole 
de pistol. 

Larry. An' Masther Scud am a gintleman — ( Aside.) 
Thafe. 

Scud. Now den, Hibernicum, shake yer hoof, shake 
yer hoof, vamose. One — two — tree — 

Larry (rising). Off it is, belave it, honey. (Goes to 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 149 

door, c.) I'll be avia wid ye, ye black thafe of the 
worrld. 

Scud. De pistol am a goin' ; can't hole him, by golly, 
can't hole him. (Exit Larry, c.) Golly, see um run. 
De day ob triberlation am come. Massa cap'n tole me 
to get under cober an' watch dat ar door. Dis yer am de 
only cober I kin find. Almos' stuffocate me. My knees am 
all out ob jint in de barrel, but dar ain't nobody goin' into 
dat ar door while I've got dis yer pistol. Hallo ! some- 
body's comin'. Whars de cober? It am clean gone. 
(Drops into barrel.) 

Enter Paragraph, c, with note-booh. 

Paragraph. What's this — a murder ? The Irishman 
said that somebody had murdered somebody. His mas- 
ter locked up, and to use his expressive words, u Owld 
Nick broke loose.'' Peter, you're in luck. Here'^ an 
item. (Writes.) u Horrible outrage. Dastardly as- 
sassination. The banks of Fairpoint bathed in gore. 
High crime on the Lowlands. Testimony of an eye- 
witness. Our special correspondent on the spot." 
There's a heading for an extra. But where's the mur- 
derer, and where's the murdered? The light-keeper 
locked up ! He must be the assassin. I'll interview 
him. What ! Miss Daze, my adored Minnie, for whom 
I fished and lost? I'll try her with a fresh bait. (Takes 
oat his handkerchief.) 

Enter Minnie, r. 

Minnie. Mr. Paragraph ! Sir, I thought we were 
to have no more of your society. 



150 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Paragraph (with affected emotion). Minnie, — ah, 
Miss Daze, — I am about to leave this place, hallowed 
by tender recollections, never to return. ( Wipes his eyes.) 
After a sleepless night, I have come to my senses. Yes, 
Peter, who so madly loved you, adored, celestial, seraph- 
ic, ecstatic, unaffected divinity of loveliness, has come 
to a realizing sense of his inferiority. The said Peter 
now sees how high you are above him. Pardon this 
weakness. ( Weeps, and blows his nose.) In an hour 
you will find said Peter, your once loved Peter, far away. 
You'll never hear of him again, save by report of his 
valor in the field. 

Minnie. In the field ? What mean you Peter — Mr. 
Paragraph ? 

Paragraph. To-morrow I enlist in the noble army of 
martyrs who serve our dearly beloved Uncle Samuel ; 
to-morrow I don the habiliments of a soldier — the tightly- 
fitting pantaloons, the baggy coat of blue, and march 
away to battle against " Lo." 

Minnie. Against who ? 

Paragraph. " Lo', the poor Indian," on the broad prairies 
of the West. Ah, the thought is a soothing balm to my 
lacerated bosom. It is an inspiration. I feel the glow 
of martial fire ; the smoke of battle fills my nostrils. I 
see the red man of the forest ; my hand grasps his top- 
knot ; my gleaming knife encircles his head. Ah, ha ! 
his scalp is at my belt. 

Minnie. How romantic. O Peter ! glorious Peter ! 
you w T ere born to be a soldier. 

Paragraph. There's but one drawback to this glow- 
ing picture. To leave you, whom I so madly love, to 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 151 

leave you, fair type of civilization, to find companion- 
ship with the red squaws of the West. The thought 
is madness. 

JTinnie. And do you think I will submit to the 
parting? No, Peter. When you go forth as a sol- 
dier I will be by your side. I will carry your mus- 
ket ; I will share with you the burden of your knap- 
sack, and, on the far distant prairies, cook for you the 
sportive buffalo, while you scalp the red man. 

Paragraph. 0, this is too much. Devotion, thy 
name is Woman. O Minnie Daze, I'm all ablaze with 
love and valor. Thus do I swear fidelity to you, my 
soldier bride. {Kisses her.) 

Scud {popping up his head). Dat's de sojer's fust 
shot, all de world ober. {Disappears.) 

Minnie. O, Peter, how could you? Pardon my 
blushes ; 'twas so abrupt. Give me time to recover. 
Anon we'll meet, my gallant soldier. O, this is indeed 
romantic. \_Exit, R. 

Paragraph. Go for a soldier ! Not much, my bloom- 
ing Minnie. I've made peace with you without a bat- 
tle, and I'll contrive to keep it without the help of the 
red man. Now, then, to interview the murderer. That's 
his room. {Going, l. Scud rises in the barrel.) 

Scud. Halt dar, Massa Paragruff. 

Paragraph. Scud! What are you doing in that 
barrel ? 

Scud. Dis yer am de sentry-box, Massa Paragruff. 

Paragraph. O, ho ! I see. You are on guard. 

Scud. Yaas, Massa Paragruff. I'm de brack guard 
ob de place. 



152 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Paragraph. Exactly. There has been a murder com- 
mitted. Am I right ? 

Scud. Yaas, indeed. Almos' killed a man. 

Paragraph. Good. Hold on a minute till I get my 
note-book. {Takes out note-book.) I'll interview you 
first. 

Scud. Interwhich? Yaas, I guess not. Yer can't 
come inter dis yer barrel. 

Paragraph. Now then, Scud, tell me all about it. 
You witnessed the deed? 

Scud. Yaas, indeed, I was dar, chile, in de thickest 
ob de fry. 

Paragraph. Yes. ( Writes.) Scud, intelligent col- 
ored man — age, forty — occupation, servant — witnessed 
the deed. 

Scud. See hyar, Massa Paragruff, what yer doin' dat 
for ? What yer writin' my photography for ? I didn't 
kill nuffin. 

Paragraph. It's all right. Now, then, who was 
murdered ? 

Scud. Hey? Why, de wictim, ob course. 

Paragraph. But who was the victim ? 

Scud. Why, de chap what was de wictim. 

Paragraph. O, stuff! What was his name? 

Scud. De back name, or de front name ? 

Paragraph. Both, you mule. 

Scud. Young man, look hyar. If you go for to 
hurlin' obstreperous epigrams at dis yer chile, I'm done, 
dat's all. 

Paragraph. I beg your pardon, Scud. Please give 
me the name of the victim. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 153 

Scud. Why, yer know him. 'Twas Massa Clarence. 

Paragraph. Clarence murdered, and I asleep. ( Writes?) 
Victim, Clarence Hunter — age, twenty-one — pride of 
his father — promising youth — cut off — flower of man- 
hood. Go on. Who was the murderer? 

Scud. De fellow wid de knife. 

Paragraph. Deed committed with a knife. Well. 

Scud. Well, you see, Massa Clarence was a sleepin' 
onto de bench down dar, an' I was a sleepin' onto de 
floor down dar, an' de fellow come into de door dar wid 
a knife ; an' he stan' up in de floor jes dar, an' de lighten 
come, an' I seed him. Den he went for Massa Clarence, 
an' dis yer chile went for him, an' somefin dropped, dat's 
all. Den we locked him into dat yer room. 

Paragraph. In that room? Enough. From the lips 
of the murderer I will hear the rest. O Peter, you're 
in luck. Here's matter for two columns of sensation. 
(Going, L.) 

Scud. Hole on, Massa Paragruff. Whar are you 
goin' ? 

Paragraph. Into that room. 

Scud. Can't do it, no sar. I am de cap'n ob dis yer 
— di»yer — barrel, an' dar ain't no passin' dis yer bul- 
wark, no sar. 

Paragraph. What, would you hamper the freedom of 
the press ? 

Scud. Don't know nuflin bout de press. Free list 
am suspended. No dead heads in dar. No, sar ; 
can't go. 

Paragraph. But I shall. My professional reputation 
is at stake. Stand back. 



154 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Scud (presenting pistol). Stand back yerself, or 
yer'll make a bifsteak. 

Paragraph {retreating) . Put up that pistol. 

Scud. 'Tain't one ob dat kind. It keeps goin' round, 
an' goin' off, an — 

Paragraph. Put it down. I'll tell your master, you 
scamp, and have you horsewhipped. Point a pistol at 
a gentleman, and a member of the press ! You shall 
catch it. (Hurries off, c.) 

Scud. Yaas, sar, do, sar, fotch de master, an' git me 
out ob dis yer barrel. Freedom ob de press ! Ya, ya ! 
dat am a mighty organ, but dis yer pistol am a sight 
more powerfuller. Hallo ! dar's somebody else. Can't 
go into dat ar room, no, sar. (Disappears in harrel.) 

Enter Bess, c. 
Bess (singing). 

" Ever be happy, gay as a lark, 
Pride of the pirate's heart." 

Bather early to make a call. But it's such a splendid 
morning, bright, clear, with a capital breeze, and just the 
morning for a sail ; so, to be hospitable and polite, I've 
launched my boat, and sculled across the bay to invite 
my beau of last night to take a seat. O, wasn't he 
splendid — so tall, and such a noble style about him ! 
Ah, me, Bess Starbright, it's well for you that he stays 
but a day. 

Enter Clarence. 

Clarence. Well, well, Miss Bess, here you are. 
Bess. Yes, Mr. Clarence, here I am, to wish you 
a good morning. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 155 

Clarence. I've been to your house to make a morn- 
ing call. 

Bess. That's very kind of you. And I took my 
boat and rowed across the bay, and so missed meet- 
ing you on the sands. Come, it's a beautiful morning ; 
give me your company for a sail. 

Clarence. A sail? That's delightful. Shall I call 
the rest of our party? 

Bess. Just as you please — but — but — but my boat 
will only carry two. 

Clarence. Ah, that's a delightful boat ! I thank 
you for your kind invitation, and will give you my 
company with pleasure. This is my birthday, Miss 
Bess. 

Bess. Your birthday? Accept my congratulations. 

Clarence. Thank you ; but I shall ask you for 
something more. I am twenty-one to-day, Miss Star- 
bright, and with my manhood comes the possession of a 
large property, and an income sufficient to satisfy the 
most lavish disposition. 

Bess (aside). Rich! Ah, me! would he were as 
poor as I. (Aloud.) I'm very glad, sir. 

Clarence. Yes, I have wealth. I also have a pair 
of strong arms, a healthy frame, a passably clear head, 
and, I hope, a warm heart. I'm rather an oddity, for 
I believe nothing in this world is of any good unless 
it is made useful ; and unless I can make the wealth 
serve me as well as I have made the others, I shall 
think my birthday gift of fortune is a useless incum- 
brance. 

Bess. Why, I declare, sir. You're quite a preach- 
er, too. 



156 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Clarence. Am I? Do you know what text I should 
like to preach a sermon from ? 

Bess. Fin sure I don't. 

Clarence. With you as the congregation, I as the 
preacher, " Love one another." 

Bess. Sir — Mr. Clarence ! 

Clarence. Miss Starbright — Bess — listen to me. 
Last night, after you left me, I stood at your window. 
I heard the sound of a piano and your voice, sweeter 
than any which ever fell upon my ears. You have 
beauty, taste, talent. You are out of place here. I 
have met beautiful, cultivated women in society, but 
never before has my heart been moved by that mighty 
power w T hich makes or mars all destinies. Bess, 
let my hand lead you to a station more fitting your 
noble, brave spirit. Be my wife, Bess, for I love you. 

Bess. You love me? — you rich, I a poor girl? 

Clarence. Nay, let's drop comparisons, or change 
names, for your brave acts would count in honorable 
wealth beyond my rich possessions. 

Bess. O, Mr. Clarence ! I know not what to say. 
I cannot but be pleased with your preference. I, too, 
have had my sweet dreams since you came here, but 
'tis so strange. "lis better we should let it pass as a 
dream. To-day you will leave me ; to-morrow you 
will look upon it as but a dream, and forget me. 

Clarence. 'Tis a dream from which I hope never 
to awake then. No, Bess, I am determined you shall 
be my wife. 

Enter Hunter, c. 

Hunter. And he's a most determined young scamp, 
Miss Bess. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 157 

Bess. What, Mr. Hunter, will you allow this? 
Hunter. I cannot help myself. He is of age ; and 
besides, I rather like his spirit. 

Bess. But what will Mother Carey say? 

Enter Mother Carey, c. 

Mother C. Be not too hasty. Time tries all. Wait. 
There are mysteries to be cleared, accounts to be set- 
tled, wrongs to be righted. Love can wait, as well as 
hate. 

Clarence. Nay, Mother Carey, there's no time like 
the present. I love your daughter ; would make her my 
w T ife. I believe I can gain her consent. Have I yours? 

Motlier C. Patience, boy, patience. An hour from 
now the tide will change. Who can tell w T hat its 
flood may strew upon the beach, — perhaps treasures 
of hope and joy ; perhaps fragments of wrecked hopes, 
and ghastly corses of despair. Wait, boy, w r ait. Come 
to me then, and what I have the right to bestow shall be 
yours. 

Clarence. Thanks ! I will await your pleasure. 
Come, Bess, I'm anxious for that sail. 

Bess. Gracious ! I forgot all about it. Come, you 
shall see how I manage a boat. 

Clarence. And then you shall see how I manage a 
wife. 

Bess. When you've caught her. Come along, sir. 

[Exit, c. 

Hunter. Hallo, Scud! (Scud ibises from barrel.) 

Scud. Ay, ay, Massa Cap'n. 

Hunter. What in the world are you doing there ? 



158 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Scud. I's on guard, Massa Cap'n. Didn't ye tole 
me to watch de door dar? Spec I did — wid a pistle, 
too. 

Hunter. Well, get out of that barrel — quick ! 

Scud (tips the barrel cIowji, and crawls out). Relibe 
guard ! Yaas, sar, spec I will. I, golly, got de rheu- 
raatiz in my heel. {Hollies to door, c.) Here, cap'n, 
hyar's yer pistle. (Hunter takes it.) I jes paid off 
dat ar Hibernicum ! (At door, c, a broom comes down 
upon, his head.) 

Larry. Ye did, ye thafe uv the worrld ! 

Scud. By golly, stop, yer fool ! Help ! help ! (Runs 
across stage, followed by Larry beating him.) 

Larry. I'lltache ye, ye black son of a gun. [Exit, r. 

Hunter. And now we are alone, I thank you for 
the service you have performed in disclosing a villain. 
May I not ask you to clear this mystery ? 

Mother C. Bruce Hunter, or Carter, — it matters 
not, — you are a noble man. In all honorable ways, 
you have attained the love of friends, great wealth, a 
high name in the council halls, the good opinion of your 
fellows. One more effort, and happiness is yours. 

Hunter. Still mysterious. What must I now do? 

Mother G. Bring a sinner to repentance. 

Hunter. I am still in the dark. 

Mother C. Listen. Fifteen years ago, under my 
humble roof rested a woman weak and faint after a long 
journey. Her story was a bitter one. Young, the 
bloom of girlhood scarcely swept from her cheek, she 
was a wife and mother. Her husband was a reckless, 
dissipated man, whose father had disinherited him for 



AMONG THE ERKAKff 159 

marrying a poor girl, willing his property to an 
adopted son. 

H -.::■-. Paul Hunter! 

Mother 0, And yourself. My characters are real. 

I with revenge, the disappointed man determined 

to rob his foster brother of his clearest treasure. The 

:: . with tears and supplication, attempted to per- 
suade him from his purpose. He struck her to the 
earth, sought the home of his enemy, and accomplished 
his [ nr| >ae. 

Hunter. So tar all's true. The rest is mystery. 

Mother C. He fled ; but not unwatched, for the wife 
stealthily followed. 

Hunter. Wretched woman ! She should have sought 
the unhappy father, disclosed the hiding-place of the 
villain — 

Mother G. She was his wife. The two were one. 
His secre:- were hear secrets, to be kept sacredly. 
With the knowledge of his guilt she must cover her 
head, though the heavy burden crush her to the dust. 
She found his hiding-place ; watched and waited for 
the hand of fate to lead the father to his child. For 
she had made a vow that w T hile her husband lived her 
lips -hould be silent, unless that husband, on his bended 
knees, with remorse leading his guilty soul to repentance, 
should himself proclaim the truth, and sue for pardon. 

Hunter. Where is that woman? 

Mother C. Beyond your reach. Bruce Hunter, he 
who so wronged you is at your mercy. In your hands 
is the weapon that can take his life ; in your heart is 
the power to lead him to repentance. Use either, and 



160 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

the mystery is cleared. You have your choice. But 
reflect. Revenge, speedy, quick, terrible, blots out a 
wretched life, to stain you with its blood ; repentance 
washes a soul, brings it nearer to a merciful Father, 
and weaves into your spirit the rich reward of a noble 
act. (At door, c.) Bruce Hunter, I have done. When 
next we meet, the mystery is cleared. \_Exit, c. 

Hunter (sinking into chair r. of table). "You have 
your choice. The power is in your heart to bring him 
to repentance." 'Tis false. There's nought within this 
bosom but a fierce desire for revenge. When I re- 
member these long years of separation from one who 
might have made my life so happy ; when I remember 
the cruel wrong wrought by this inhuman monster, can 
I stop to parley with him, to turn him to repentance? 
No ; this weapon shall right me quick, and thus restore 
my daughter. (Rises.) Daughter ! Ah, but when I 
have her in my arms, will she not shrink from the em- 
braces of a father whose hands are stained with blood? 
That woman is well skilled in her vocation. She sets 
fierce passions warring in my breast, and stakes her for- 
tunes on the power that in life's battle oft for me has 
won the field. She's right. I cannot sully the fair record 
of the past with crime. Away the thought. Heaven 
help me to subdue this man. (Goes r., unlocks door, and 
throws it open.) Paul Hunter ! You are wanted. (Re- 
turns to seat r. of table.) 

David (outside, l.). "Wanted, ha, ha! by the officers 
of justice. Well, I am ready. (Enters, l.) I am 
ready. How? — alone? Come, let's have no delay in 
this business. I am anxious to enjoy the quiet of grim 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 1G1 

walls, the solitude of the felon's cell. Bring in your 
men. You'll find no resistance. I'll walk as calmly to 
my fate as did the martyrs to the stake. 

Hunter, There are no officers here. You are as 
free as I. 

David. Free? Have you forgotten, that last night I 
attempted your life ; that I would have killed you as I 
would a snake that bit me? 

Hunter. O, no, I haven't forgotten it, Paul. But 
for the fidelity of a faithful friend some one would have 
been a corse this bright morninsr. 

David. Faithful friend ! Curse him. 

Hunter. And he saved a life clearer than mine. 
Your little plot failed, Paul. 'Twas the boy whose 
life was endangered, not mine. 

David. Bruce Carter, you have escaped me ; but if 
you value your life, leave this place forever. There's a 
fiend in my bosom urging me to murder : there's a 
frenzied power creeping through my frame I cannot 
control. Begone — ere 'tis too late. 

Hunter. 'Tis too late now, Paul Hunter ; too late for 
you and I to separate, until that dark veil which covers 
the past is lifted. For fifteen years you have embittered 
my life ; and now, when w T e meet, you bid me begone. 
Fool ! you forget I am the avenger now. 'Tis my wrongs 
that cry aloud. Of what do you complain ? 

David. Complain? Nothing. Why should I? There 
was a rich old father in the past, whom I loved dearly, 
and who loved me ; but another stepped in between, and 
robbed me of his love. But I must not complain. He 
died cursing me : 'twas the work of this other. But I 
11 



162 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

must not complain. Those broad lands, elegant houses, 
stores of notes and gold yonder, mine by right, *vhich 
this other enjoys. But I must not complain. 

Hunter. You're wrong, — all wrong, Paul. 

David. Silence ! I know your smooth, oily tongue ; 
I knew that from the moment you stepped into my father's 
door, your aim was to destroy my influence, and reign 
supreme. I knew this, and you succeeded. I couldn't 
beat you there, but I had a terrible revenge. 

Hunter. You stole my daughter. 

David. Ay, from her cradle. Yes, the smooth tongue 
was wanting, but a soft step, a subtle trick outfought 
you, Bruce Carter ; and I bore her off in triumph. 

Hunter. Where is she now? 

David. Where you will never find her. I foiled 
your efforts to track us, for I knew whom you suspected. 
Ah, 'twas a glorious victory. One other would content 
me. To snatch you from my rich possessions, — mine, 
do you hear, Bruce Carter ? — to get my hands about your 
throat, to drag you to the bank beyond, and hurl you into 
the breakers. That would content me. You hear me ? 
We are alone, face to face. I'll struggle with you for a 
life, to end this mortal hate. {Approaching him fiercely .) 

Hunter (producing pistol). Stop ! There's a quicker 
way than that which you propose. 'Tis loaded, — works 
well, — is deadly sure. I'll place it here upon the table 
(lays it on table) , within your reach. At any moment 
you can grasp it, and with it take my life. I only ask 
that you will patiently listen to what I shall say. 

David (quickly places his hand on pistol). You're in 
my power. Yes, I'll listen. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 163 

Hunter. Paul, your life has been all a mistake ; your 
estimate of me is all a mistake. I uever tried to sup- 
plant you : was always your friend. You remember, you 
were dissipated, married against your father's command. 
Often I have stood your friend, but you would not believe 
me, so 'twould be useless to try to convince you of my 
friendship. 

David. Bah ! Rather weave ropes of sand. 

Hunter. I never saw the girl you married. I think 
your father was mistaken in her. 

David. Mistaken ! She would have graced his 
noblest assemblies. She was too good for me. 

Hunter. And so you deserted her? 

David. Have a care, Hunter. I'm desperate. 

Hunter. Your father, by a will, made me his heir. 

David. Why torture me with that? 

Hunter. To make plain what follows. One night I 
lost my daughter. You know how. 

David. Indeed I do. 

Hunter. The night following, a little boy, a bright 
little fellow, about six years of age, was brought to my 
home, with a note, running something like this : " This 
boy has been deserted by his father, who has wronged 
you. His mother cannot care for him, as a stern duty 
compels her to fly. You are rich, powerful, enjoying 
what might have been this boy's. Be a father to the son 
of Paul Hunter, and Heaven and a despairing mother 
will bless you." Signed, Mary. 

David. My wife and son ! " Mary ! " My wife ! O, 
how that name strikes upon my heart. Well, the boy — 

Hunter. By the provisions of your father's will I 



164 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

was required to take the family name. By his bounty 
and affection I was already in good practice as a lawyer. 
Of the property willed me, I kept a strict account, in- 
vested in the surest and safest manner, never used one 
dollar for my own advancement, so that now the property 
has trebled in value, and to-day, by my own free act, is 
transferred, with full title and possession, to one who is 
of age to-day — your son. 

David (aghast). My son ! My son ! 

Hunter. Yes, the boy who has been, and is as dear to 
me as the little girl I lost ; the boy who has grown to 
be a noble man, with brains to conceive and energy to 
accomplish ; the boy whose life you attempted last night 
— your son Clarence Hunter. 

David. No, no, not that. Bruce Carter, spare me ; 
spare a miserable wretch. Attempt the life of my own 
son? Open, earth, and hide me ; fall, ye walls, and 
crush me. I am accursed ! accursed! accursed! (Crouches 
on stage.) 

Hunter. Come, Paul, I think you will believe me 
innocent of any design to ruin you. Let us bury the 
past. For that boy's sake be a man ; shake off this de- 
sire of revenge. Come, I offer you my hand. 

David. Your hand, Bruce, to such a wretch as — 
No, no, I see now my error. You are a noble man, 
Bruce. You have repaired wrong with blessing. Take 
your hand ? Why, mine would stain it — Ah ! the 
child! Hark! Do you hear the breakers? They 
come — dash — dash — creeping all about us. See — 
see that face! it comes again — the little girl — sad 
face, tearful eyes — on the crest of the breakers ! Drive 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 1G5 

them back ! shut those eyes ! they burn into my 
soul. 

Hunter. The child — - my child, Paul? 

David. Yes — O Bruce, if there's a spark of man- 
hood in you, revenge your wrongs. There's the weapon 
at your hand. Blow out my brains. Here, on my 
knees, I beg for pardon, ere you fire : on my knees, Bruce. 
But do not spare me. I am a murderer, — the child is 
dead ! 

Hunter. Dead ! dead ! Then all's lost — 

Enter Mother Caret, c. 

Mother C. No, all's well. The child lives. 

Hunter. Do not deceive me. 

Mother C. That repentant man at your feet bore her 
to the shore, — 'twas the night of the wreck, — plunged 
her into the waves, thinking no questions would be asked 
were she found with the dead passengers of the wreck. 
But the waves cast her up, high up upon the beach, and 
she was cradled in a mother's arms. She lives ! (Enter 
Bess Starbright, c.) Bruce Hunter, behold your 
daughter. 

Hunter. She my daughter? The proof — who are 
you? 

Mother C. The woman of the silent tongue, the pro- 
tector of your child, the deserted wife — (throws off ivig 
and cloak, appearing in dark dress) — Mary Hunter. . 

David. Mary, my wife, what does this mean? (Sits 
on bench, and covers his face.) 

Mother C. Bess, the father I promised you, has come 
at last. Bruce Hunter, take your child. I have full 
proof. 



166 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Hunter. My daughter ! {Takes her in Ids arms.') It 
must be true, it must be true. Bess, the name your 
mother gave you, your eyes so like hers — strange I 
should not have noticed them before. 

Bess. Dear father, how glad I am to know you ! 
Mother Carey has always told me that he would come to 
claim me. I never dreamed that he would be the father 
of Clarence. 

Hunter. Clarence? He is not my child. One good 
turn deserves another. Mary Hunter, you have restored 
my daughter. I give you back your son, brave, noble, 
honorable. Clarence, I promised you astounding disclo- 
sures to-day. This lady is — 

Mother C. Your mother, Clarence. 

Clarence. My mother? 

Hunter. She is right. I will explain. 

Clarence. Dear, dear mother. {Kneels at her feet.) 

Mother C. {raising him in her arms). Here, to my 
heart, my boy. Hard must be that duty which separates 
a mother from her child. This happiness repays all my 
pains. 

Clarence. Mother, I know not what witchcraft you 
have practised here ; I only know that Mr. Hunter never 
yet deceived me, and something in my heart tells me he 
is right now. 

Enter Paragraph and Minnie, c. Come down, r. 

Paragraph. Mr. Hunter, Miss Minnie and myself 
have just been calculating the exact hour of your de- 
parture. 

Minnie. We are so impatient to be off. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 1G7 

Enter Scud, c. 

Scud. De yacht am all ready. Dar's a breeze sprung 
up from the sow — sow — north by west, an' — 

" De ship it am ready, an' de sails dey are set, 
So I must be off to sea, Phoebe Jane." 

Hunter. Nay, there's no hurry, friends. The old for- 
tune-teller has turned out to be a very dear friend, and 
we are in no hurry to leave this spot. 

Clarence. Mr. Hunter, I'm in a very awkward pre- 
dicament, for I love Miss Bess Hunter as dearly as I love 
Bess Starb right. 

Hunter. My dear boy, don't give yourself any uneasi- 
ness. Bess, my child, you love Clarence? 

Bess. I'm afraid I do, father. 

Enter Larry and Biddy, r. 

Hunter {joining their hands). Then be happy. Next 
to the happiness of calling you my daughter, is the joy 
of having the power to make my dear boy 

" The happy bridegroom of so fair a bride. " 

Larry. D'ye hear that, Biddy. There's to be a wed- 
din\ 

Biddy. Och, bless their dear hearts. 

Larry. If ye plase, Misther Hunter, Miss Biddy an* 
I am thinkin' uv pairin' off. 

Scud (at door, c. Sings). 

" De monkey marred de baboon's sister — " 
Hunter. Silence, Scud ! 



168 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

Larry. Ah, ye hathen ! An' if ye plase, sir, would 
the young couple want sarvants? 

Biddy. Yis, sir, to tind the door and kape the home 
tidy. 

Larry. An' tind the childer — 

Biddy. "Whist, Larry ! it's spilin' the chance, ye are. 

Hunter. I understand. We will remember you. 
(Bess and Clarence, hand in hand, go up to Mother 
Carey. She raises her hands, as though blessing them. 
Paragraph and Minnie come down, r.) 

Paragraph. Mr. Hunter, as you seem to be master of 
ceremonies, permit me to announce the early marriage 
of the beautiful Miss Minnie Daze and the versatile Peter 
Paragraph. 

Minnie. Peter, how can you, before all these people? 

Hunter. Accept my congratulations. 

Paragraph. Thank you. Being about to enter the 
ministry, I find a w T ife will be a necessity. 

Hunter. The ministry? Why, you change professions 
rapidly, Paragraph. 

Paragraph. Do I? Well, I always did wish to be a 
pastor of a flock, it's so ennobling. 

Minnie. And so romantic. {They retire up stage, 
arm in arm.) 

Hunter. Chameleons, that change their hues, and live 
on air. (Crosses to R.) Ah, Paul Hunter, Clarence, 
I told you this was the great clearing-up day. There's 
another disclosure I must make,. This man, whom you 
have known as the light-keeper — 

David (rising). Is the light-keeper still. (Aside to 
Hunter.) Not that name to him. He would hate me. 



AMONG THE BREAKERS. 169 

He knows I sought his life. Give me time. I would 
not blast his happiness now. Wait. (Crosses, c.) 
Mother Carey, before you quit this place, do a kindness 
to an old neighbor. (Mother Carey comes down, c.) 
Before you quit your old vocation, tell me my fortune. 
Here's my hand. What read you ? 

Mother C. (takes his hand). Here, nothing ; but in 
your heart I read the story of your future life. I see 
the dark stormy clouds of revenge slowly but surely drift- 
ing away from your life. Gleams of hope appear, brighter 
and brighter, as an old dream of love glows upon your 
memory; as she who was so faithful to you, forgetting 
all wrongs, with the fondness of earlier days creeping 
into her being, yearning to be nearer and dearer, forgives 
and pardons all. 

David (falling on his knees, and kissing her hand). 
O Mary, Mary ! bless you ! bless you ! 

Mother C. Time washes away all sorrow. As we 
strive to brighten life with good deeds and true repent- 
ance, so will you strive, Paul, and the dark night shall 
pass away, and bright the morning come to bless our 
new espousal. 

David (rising). True wife ! may I never forget 
your goodness. 'Twas a dark night, indeed, that swept 
my soul. I will strive, and, with Heaven's blessing and 
your dear aid, win peace for my soul. Ah, wife, I have 
been like the unmanageable ship upon the waters, swept 
by the fierce winds of hate, battered by the cruel waves 
of remorse. They have cast me among the breakers, but 
noble hands (takes Hunter's hand, r.) have been 
stretched out towards me, and out of the darkness has 



170 AMONG THE BREAKERS. 

gleamed the light of hope (takes Mother Carey's 
ha?id, l.), and on the open sea of repentance a strong 
and steady purpose shall waft this battered hulk to a 
haven of rest. 

TABLEAU. 

David, a, clasping the hand of Hunter, r. c. ; his left 
hand in Mother Caret's ; her right hand on his shoul- 
der. Paragraph and Minnie, r. c, arm in arm. Clar- 
ence and Bess, l. a, arm in arm. Scud at door^ c. 
Larry and Biddy, r. a, hack. 



GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY. 



A FARCE. 



FOR MALE CHARACTERS ONLY. 



CHARACTERS. 

Peleg Precise, Eoreman. Job Timorous, Jacob Doubtful, 
Abel Strongfist, Jaryis Jolly, Solomon Snowball, Den- 
nis O'Rourke, Nathan Short, Enos Paunch, Brazen 
Blower, Peter Punster, Simeon Slow, Jurors. 



Scene. — A Jury Room. Table, c, with paper, pens, 
ink, &c. Twelve chairs around stage. 

Enter from n. all the characters, in the order in which 
their names are written, single file, across Stage, and 
face Audience. Door at R. is slammed and locked. 

Timorous. Good gracious ! we're locked in ! (Bushes 
across stage to r.) Here, officer ! officer ! 

Slow (at extreme r., catching TfMOROUS by arm, and 

171 



172 GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY. 

swinging him round). Stop that. It's all right, you 
know. 

Timorous. No, I don't. I'm afraid of fire — 

Punster {swinging him round to next man). What er 
that? 

Timorous. And subject to fits — 

Blower (ditto). You're nonjuror. 

Timorous. I must have air — 

Paunch (ditto). Where air you, now? 

Timorous. Or smother — 

Short (ditto). Take him to his mother. 

Timorous. What do you call this treatment? 

O'Rourhe (ditto). The movement cure, bedad. 

Timorous. It's outrageous — 

Snowball (ditto). Da's a fac', da's a fac', honey. 

Timorous. Diabolical — ' 

Jolly (ditto). Ha, ha ! now you go ag'in. 

Timorous. Infamous ! 

Strongfist (ditto). Move on, stupid. 

Timorous. I "won't stand it. 

Doubtful (pushes him into chair). Then sit down. 

Precise (at table). Gentlemen, be seated. (All sit.) 
Before we discuss the case with which we have been in- 
trusted, perhaps we had better take a vote. 

Short. My idea exactly. 

O'Bourke. Begorra; let's take something cowld. 

Precise. We have been instructed to bring a verdict, 
u Guilty or not guilty." Please write your verdict. 
Here are slips of paper. (Passes them round. All write, 
some on the table, some on chairs ; Snowball writes his 
against the wall.) 



GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY. 1 73 

O'Bourke (approaches Snowball). Whist! I say, 
d'ye write Guilty wicl a G or a J ? 

Snowball Ob course not. Write him wid a pencil 

— so. 

O'Rourke. O, be jabbers ! It's yerself 's a heathen 

— you ignoramus. 

Precise, Now, gentlemen, if you are ready. (Col- 
lects votes, spreads them on table, and assorts.) 

Timorous. 1 w r ant a glass of water — I'm faint. 

Strongfist. Shut up. Don't disturb the meeting. 

O'Rourke. Bedad, it's a glass eye ye'll be wantin' if 
yer do. 

Punster, His eye waters at the thought. 

Precise, Gentlemen, the vote stands, sis " Guilty," 
six "Not guilty." 

Jolly. Hallo, a clean cut ! 

Short. Six mules in the crowd, certain. 

O'Bourke. A majority on both sides, d'ye mind. 

Snoivball. Major who? Major who? Dar ain't no 
sogers here, hey, I ax you ? 

Precise. Well, gentlemen, there's work before us ; and, 
that we may know each other, I propose that those who 
voted " guilty" take seats on the right, those who voted 
" not guilty," on the left. 

Short. Good. I'm for the right. 

Jolly. I feel decidedly guilty. 

Slow, And so do I. 

Strongfist. Right face. March ! 

O'Bourke. Begorra, captain, I'll train in that com- 
pany. (They all pass to r. as tliey speak. Doubtful, 
Timorous, Snowball, Paunch, Punster, and Blower 
pass to L.) 



174 GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY. 

Punster. Though on the left, we're in the right. 

Paunch. Well, look here, I'm getting hungry. Ain r t 
we going to have our dinner? 

Blower. You're always thinking of eating. 

Snowball. By golly, da's a fac'. Dat ar Mr. Punch 
hab an appetite like an earthquake. 

Paunch. Bah! what do you know about it? Well, 
wake me up when you're through. {Tips his chair bach 
against wall, throivs his handkerchief over his face, and 
falls asleep.) 

Snowball. Dar, de old man gwine for Morphine. 

Precise. My vote was " Guilty," and of course I be- 
long with the party on the right. 

O'JRourJce. Thrue for yez, honey ; and ye'll find it the 
party that's always right, jist. 

Snowball. Hold yer hush, hold yer hush ! 

O'BourTce. Vat's that, ye heathen? I'd jist like to 
pound that thick pate till I had yer spachless — so I 
would. Begorra, ye'd cry Guilty then. 

Timorous. O, come, let's have peace. 

O'Rourhe. Pace, is it? Ye've had a pace of my 
mind, onyhow. 

Precise. No quarrelling, gentlemen. The quicker we 
decide this case the better. The government has charged 
one Peter Popgun with an attempt to defraud the revenue 
of the manufacturer's tax on gunpowder. Its secret 
agents, suspecting said Popgun, made a descent upon 
his establishment, which is a country store, seized cer- 
tain articles, such as saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal, 
which they found in a certain little back shop, said 
articles being, in their opinion, used by said Popgun 



GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY. 175 

in the manufacture of gunpowder. The said Popgun 
denies the manufacture of gunpowder, and sets up a 
defence that the said articles are used by him in con- 
cocting a certain patent medicine, known as the u Med- 
ical Dead Shot." Evidence has been produced on both 
sides. We have been charged to bring in a verdict 
on the evidence alone. I am quite convinced, by the 
testimony, that said Popgun did manufacture gunpowder, 
and evade the tax. Still, I should like to hear a free 
expression of opinion. 

All {jumping up). Mr. Foreman. 

Precise. Stop, stop. One at a time. 

All. Yes, yes ; one at a time, Mr. Foreman. 

Precise. Stop, stop, I say. We ean never settle it in 
this way. 

Strongfist. Of course we can't. Let us six fight the 
other six. That will settle it. 

O'PiourJce. True for yez. A fray fight. I'm w r id yer. 
(About to remove his coat.) 

Precise. Silence. There can be no fightino; here. 
You all want to speak. I will call upon each juror, 
giving both sides equal advantages of time and oppor- 
tunity. Is not that fair? 

All. Certainly. Of course. Go on. Go on. 

Precise. Very well. I will first call upon Mr. Tim- 
orous. 

Timorous (rising). Mr. Foreman, and gentlemen of 
the jury. (Very low.) I rise — I may say — yes, I 
rise — 

O'BonrJce. Louder. 

Strongfist. Speak up like a man. 



176 GENTLEMEN OF THE JtJRY. 

Timorous. I said — I rise— to say, if I may say — 
I rise to say — 

O'Rourke. 0, be jabbers, you're all out to say. 

(The party on the l., with the exception o/Patjnch, rise 
indignantly.) Mr. Foreman, Mr. Foreman ! 

Precise (pounds on table). Silence! Order, gentle- 
men, order. 

Blower. Mr. Foreman, this attempt of the party on 
the right to intimidate the party on the left is unjust. 

Punster. Far from being righteous or courteous. 

Snowball. Am we jurors, or am we not jurors? I ax 
you? 

Precise. The interruption shall not occur again. Go 
on, Mr. Timorous. 

Timorous. If you please, Mr. Foreman, I only rose 
to say — that, if I might be allowed to say it — that — 
I've got nothing to say. 

Party on right. Shame ! Humbug ! Put him out ! 

Precise. Order, gentlemen. — Have you no reason to 
give for your vote of " Not guilty"? 

Timorous. 0, yes; lots. I voted "Guilty," no, 
" Not guilty," because — well, because — Popgun don't 
look like a man who would concoct such a sanguinary 
mixture as powder. He hasn't the air of a ruffian. His 
thoughts don't run in that explosive channel. I'm some- 
thing of a physiognomist. 

Snowball. Mahogany ! What's dat ? 

Timorous. A physiognomist. I judge by the face — 

Party on right. O, humbug ! 

Blower. Mr. Foreman, I protest this attempt to stifle 
the voice of Justice is a high-handed crime. 



GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY. 177 

Snowball. Yes, sar ; it's bigamy, kleptomania, arson. 

Precise. Order, gentlemen. — Go on, Mr. Timorous. 

Timorous. But then I haven't any particular opinion 
in the matter ; and if you want me to change — 

Blower. Silence, traitor ! 

Snowball. Shut up yer tater trap. 

Punster. Suppose you sit, for a change. {Pulls him 
doivn to seat.) 

Timorous. Anything to oblige. 

Precise. Mr. Jolly. 

Jolly (rising). My turn, hey? Mr. Foreman, and 
gentlemen of the jury, — 

To make or not to make, that is the question. 
Whether 'tis better to let Popgun suffer 
The law's full penalty for mixing powder, 
Or to take arms against this awful tax, 
And by our verdict free him. 

Gentlemen, Popgun is a dangerous man. I am for his 
annihilation. He is a second Guy Fawkes. Behind his 
shop are concealed those explosive materials destined to 
spread havoc and destruction in an innocent neighbor- 
hood. We might spare him if the possible destruction 
of a thousand or two of his immediate neighbors was the 
only consequence to be feared. But he's a sneak; he 
dodges the tax. That we must not suffer. The medi- 
cine story won't do ; the dose is too heavy ; it won't 
stay on the stomach. That gun recoils upon Popgun, 
who is too heavily charged by the evidence to be dis- 
charged by this jury. (Sits.) 

Precise. Order, gentlemen. Mr. Doubtful. 
12 



178 GENTLEMEN OF THE JUUY. 

Snowball. No, sar, no, sar. I move we lay him onto 
de table, sinner die. 

O'Bourke. Die, is it, ye black sinner? Howld yer 
pate, or you'll die jist. 

Doubtful {rising). Mr. Foreman, and gentlemen of 
the jury, there's one p'int in this evidence I want 
cleared up. 

O'Bourke. Is it a pint of whiskey, I donno ? 

All. Order, order. 

O'Bourke. That's what I'd like to do, and drink it, 
too. 

Doubtful. If that air Popgun made gunpowder, why 
didn't somebody see him do it? Cause a man's got salt- 
petre in his house, and sulphur and charcoal, it doesn't 
foller that he's going to make gunpowder. I've got 
charcoal in my house — kindle the fire with it ; sulphur 
to bleach with ; saltpetre for curing purposes. But no- 
body ever said I made gunpowder. It's rediculous. 
Popgun's got eggs in his store. Why don't you say he 
hatched them? {Sits.) 

Snowball. Da's a fac', da's a fac'. Second de mo- 
tion. 

AIL Order, order. 

Precise: Mr. Strongfist. 

Strongfist. Well, you're a pretty set of sneaks over 
there, you are. 

All. Order, order. 

Strongfist. O, I know what I'm about. I'd like to 
get in among you. I believe in justice. I believe in 
any man's having his say in this world ; but I don't 
believe in arguing about a matter that's as plain as the 



GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY. 179 

nose on your face. The man made gunpowder, and 
sold it. didn't pay the tax, and you fellows over there 
know it. You're a set of obstinate fools ; and it's the 
duty of all loyal citizens to stand by the government and 
punish traitors. The government's been insulted by this 
contemptible Popgun, and you fellows on the left uphold 
him. Our duty is clear, to bring you to your senses. 
{Takes off coat.) So, come on. (Squares off.) 

O'Bourke. I'm wid yez. Fag a ballah ! Erin come 
unim. 

All. Order, order. 

Precise. Gentlemen, peace, I pray. Mr. Strongfist, 
your argument is very weak. 

Strongfist. Is it? Well, my fist is strong; let me 
try that. 

Precise. No, sir ; you will please be seated. Mr. 
Paunch. 

Snowball (shaking him). Here, Mr. Punch, Mr. 
Pimch. 

Paunch. Hey? O, yes. Mr. Foreman, I've got 
precious little to say. I'm hungry ; I've had nothing to 
eat since morning. I was invited out to dinner at five 
o'clock w^ith Alderman Cross. Fine leg of venison and 
native tomatoes, sliced, stewed, and broiled. The alder- 
man is a capital eater, weighs three hundred and fifty, 
and has the best hogs — 

Precise. Won't you confine yourself to the question, 
Mr. Paunch ? 

Paunch. O, yes. Hogshead of Madeira you ever 
tasted. It's capital. Then his cheeses ! Good gra- 
cious ! they're mighty — 



180 GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY. 

Precise. Mr. Paunch, Mr. Paunch ! 

Paunch. They're mighty fine. What did you say, 
sir? 

Precise. Will you give your reasons for voting " Not 
guilty"? 

Paunch. Certainly. Stop. Did I vote " Xot guilty"? 
I don't remember. It don't make any difference. Settle 
it as you please, only remember I must dine with Alder- 
man Cross at five. (Sits and goes to sleep again.) 

Snowball. Question, question ! We'll all dine with 
Cross, hey ! I ax you. 

Precise. Mr. Slow, you next. 

Slow. Hey? Yes. Well, I don't know. Popgun 
did make gunpowder, I guess, cause he had a little shop. 
(Pauses.) 

Precise. Well, go on, Mr. Slow. 

Slow. Yes. Well, he had a little shop, Popgun had, 
and he made somethin' in that shop ; and if he didn't 
make gunpowder, he made somethin' in that little shop 
that he didn't pay no tax onto. And so he's guilty er 
somethin' or other in that little shop. So long's he's 
caught, what's the odds, as long as you're happy. (Sits,) 

Snowball. Doubted, doubted. 

All. Order. 

Precise. Mr. Blower. 

Blower (rises, flourishes his handkerchief, blows his nose, 
strikes an attitude). M-r-r-r-r. Foreman, and genteelmen 
of the jury, it is with spontaneous emotion that I rise to 
address you. You, genteelmen, with me, have looked 
upon a touching scene to-day. We have seen an enlight- 
ened citizen of this great republic, which, like the light 



GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY. 181 

of yonder firmament, attracts the attention of the whole 
world. We have seen him dragged from the bosom of 
his family and placed at the bar, at the bar, gentlemen, 
there to answer to grave and serious charges. It is evi- 
dent that in the mysterious depths of that little back shop 
something has been concocted. The government says 
" Powder ; " the defendant says a Shot." Powder and 
shot! "Powder" or "shot," in this case. One pos- 
sesses the power to blow the human frame into infinites- 
imal particles ; the other cures all ills that flesh is heir 
to. Can we pause and deliberate? Look at that man, 
dragged from the bosom of his family ; his wife and chil- 
dren — 

Jolly. Beg your pardon, Blower. Popgun is single. 

Blower. Hey? Dragged from the paternal mansion. 
Hear the cry of the agonized and aged mother of the 
prisoner, as she stands upon the doorstep and screams, 
" My child ! Bring back my little Popgun ! " 

Jolly. Wrong again, Blower. He's neither father 
nor mother. 

Blower. Hey ! Poor orphan ! without a friend in 
the world ! Can we turn our backs upon him? No. 
Let us be merciful. Let us indorse his patent medicine, 
and carry from this room a verdict of Not guilty. Then 
shall the tears of the orphan be squelched in gratitude, 
and the blessings of future generations of Popguns fol- 
low us. 

O'Rourke. Begorra, that's a teching appeal. 

Precise. Now, Mr. O'Rourke, your turn. 

O'Boarke (rising). I ax yer pardon, judge, Mr. Fore- 
man, and gintlemen all. AY id the blood of forty ginera- 



182 GENTLEMEN OF THE JtTRY. 

tions of O'Rourkes a seetkin' with patriotic emotion in 
me bosom, d'ye mind ; with faylings of gratitude for the 
fray gifts of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, 
guaranteed by this moighty republic, which, as I look 
back into the future, is iver prisint in all its glory, d'ye 
mind. Could I be so base as to dash myself forenjnst 
those illigant laws that crush the wake and guard the 
strong? By the grane sod of ould Ireland, niver ! If 
that thaif of the wurld, Popgun, has transgressed the 
law, let him swing. And what for would he be mixing 
saltpatre and — and — and brimstone, and — and char- 
coal, if not to blow up somebody. Medicine, is it ? It's 
my opinion that we'd better bring in a verdict of Guilty, 
and hang him, wid a recommendation to mercy, pro- 
vided forty doses of his Medical Dead Shot bring him 
to life afther he's been dead and buried siven days. 
Thim's my verdict, judge. (Sits.) 

Jolly. That's a reviving verdict. 

Precise. Mr. Punster. 

Punster (rising). Mr. Foreman, and gentlemen of 
the jury, the party popularly known in this suit as Pop- 
gun is a small affair, but I do not wonder that he kicks 
against this attempt of the government to charge him 
with powder he never made. How would you like it 
yourselves, gentlemen? Imagine yourselves Popguns, 
and happy in the disposing of butter, cheese, and — and 
hairpins to a needy community. Upon a luckless occa- 
sion, you sell ten cents' worth of powder to a red-headed 
urchin on the eve of our glorious independence. The 
awful crime is repeated ; and, by the power of govern- 
ment, you innocent Popguns are incarcerated on a grave 



GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY. 183 

charge. You hear nothing but powder ; you are loaded 
with reproaches and powder ; it is rammed down your 
throats, until, like Popgun, you burst with indignation. 
Have we not heard from the lips of competent wit- 
nesses the amazing power of his Dead Shot? An old 
man had suffered forty years with influenza ; the Dead 
Shot stopped it forever. An old lady, bent double with 
the rheumatism, was made straight by its power. A 
young mother, whose tender infant had wailed night 
after night, was loud in its praises. Gentlemen, this 
suit comes from the malice and jealousy of an envious 
rival. Gentlemen, this is a conspiracy. Let us clear 
Popgun of the charges under which he labors, by ap- 
plying the match of justice to his overloaded soul. 
Then will he go off triumphantly, scattering destruction 
among his enemies, and give a good report of our de- 
liberations. (Sits.) 

Snowball (jumping up). See here, white folks, what's 
de use ? what's de use ? 

Precise. Mr. Snowball, you're out of order. 

All. Go on, Snowball. Fire away. 

Snowball. Mr. Foreman and gemblem. Of course 
it am. Why not? And, if not, wherefore? I ax you. 
If de blessed Constitution of dese ere United States ob 
America don't permit the humblest of her sex to choose 
de proper medicines for dar physical systems, wedder it 
be gunpowder or gunpowder tea, what's de use ob bein' 
citizens and citizenesses of dese here republic ? I ax you. 
Who's Popgun? Am he, or am he not, a phusician? 
I ax you. I don't care what his moral perquisites be, 
wedder he vote de demicratic or de bobolitiou. Does 



184 GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY. 

he care de squills which air am flesh to? I ax yon. 
When dat ar old man, which my white brudder alluded 
to, had de influendways, did he stop his sneezin? I ax 
you. When dat ar old woman hobble to him wid de 
rheumatics, did he straighten her out? I ax you. When' 
dat ar baby squaked in its slumbers of midnight, did 
Popgun's Dead Shot fix it? I ax you. If so, and you 
find it so, — and I ax you to find it so, — you are forced- 
to acquit Popgun as a medical dedical sturgen and phu- 
sician '■ — ob course you am ; for don' de stolid phalanx 
of justice circumbend every man on Columbia's footstool, 
wedder black or white, male or female? and de aurora 
borealistic splendors of eternal vigilance abide in de 
scrutinized recesses of de enlightened jury-room? I ax 
you. 

O'BourJce. Begorra ! send for an interpreter. 

Precise. Mr. Short. 

Short {comes down to table) . It's my opinion, gentle- 
men, there's been a great deal of time and gas wasted in 
our deliberations. I've got very few words to say on 
this subject. Popgun manufactured an article which the 
government said was gunpowder. Popgun denies it. 
That is the question for us to decide. We were shown 
in the court-room a sample of this disputed article. It 
looked like gunpowder ; it smelt like gunpowder ; it felt 
like gunpowder. I took away the box. Here it is. 
{Produces box.) Some of you think it is not gunpowder. 
I propose to give it a practical test. (Places box on table, 
takes off cover, takes a match out of his -pocket.) 

Timorous. What ! You're not going to fire it off! . 

Short. Don't be alarmed. There's only a pound or 
two. It can't do much damage. 



GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY. 185 

You'll blow us all up ! 
Jolly. The man' 

_ orra, there ! Aisy wid yer prank-. 
him ! Stop hi 
Short. Here she goes. | D raws match across table.) 
Murder! Officer! Put him out, &c. 
(Timorous aids under table ; Snowball jumps up into 
frantic attempts to crawl up the wall ; 
r into corner, pulls Paunch up to cover 
: ; Blower d covers himself with a chair ; 

Precise sfcg s Its :.:. s 3 and crouches in a corner ; Strong- 
fist and Punster seize Short, one on each side; 
(^Bourse seizes Short by coat-tail behind; Jolly and 
Slow try to get behind each oih 
P^:\5i. "Would you nun lei us? 
>: -c . fist Blow us to pieces ? 
O'Pl : ... : : : . Call in the judge. 

Short. Let me go, I tell you. (Kicks O'Kourke, 
.5 Precise and Strongfist, and sends them to the 
floor.) 

G*B I'm kilt intirely. 

All. Help! Mnrder! II. 

Short {holding the match). Now, gentlemen of the 
, here is a convincing test. Shall I apply it, or are 
th a vera:;: : 
AU. No. Yes. Verdict. Verdict. 
>'..<: :. Gentlemen, what is your verdict, guilty or not 
guilty ? 

A'\ Guilty. 

Short. All right. Mr. Foreman, make out your 
papers. (Blows out mater.. All resume sea 



186 GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY. 

Timorous, "Well, I never had such a scare in all my 
life. 

O'Rourhe. By me soul ! I say a wake a comin' for 
the last of the O'Rourkes. 

Snowball. By golly, I'm all ob a hot chill in my back- 
bone. 

Precise (icho has been writing). Gentlemen, listen to 
your verdict. " We find the defendant, Peleg Popgun, 
guilty." 

Jolly. " So say we, all of us." 

All, Ay. Ay. 

Short. Then there's no further use for this box of saw- 
dust, I suppose. 

All, Sawdust? 

Short. Exactly. You thought 'twas gunpowder. 
No matter. I saw I could throw dust in your eyes with 
it. I can't say much for your argument. You're like 
all the rest of this universal Yankee nation — anxious to 
fasten your tongue tackle on to every question. There's 
a very plain case here, which might have been a very 
knotty one but for the sawdust, which has brought you 
to terms, and thus proved a better medicine than Pop- 
gun's celebrated Dead Shot. 

CURTAIN. 



THE SEYEN AGES. 



A TABLEAU ENTERTAINMENT. 



[Arrangement for Home Representation. — Across the middle 
of the longest room in the house stretch curtains to separate in 
the middle and draw apart. You thus have a room for audience 
and a stage for performers. The stage should be divided in like 
manner by curtains to separate in the middle, giving a stage in 
front for performers, behind for tableaux. The rear or tableau 
stage should be draped with dark cloth (purple is best) ; there 
should be entrances on both sides, that the characters in the 
tableaux may pass on and off without being seen. Should two 
rooms with folding-doors between be used, the curtains between 
the audience and the stage can be dispensed with and the doors 
used instead. 

The performers are directed as though standing on the stage 
facing the audience, r means Right, l Left, c Centre.] 



SPEAKING CHARACTERS. 

Paul Perplex, an Artist. 
Pact, a ' ; Stubborn Thing." 
Fancy, the Artist's Pet. 
Reason, the " Calm-Eyed." 

The Nurse, the Schoolboy, the Lover, the Soldier, 
the Pather, the Justice, the Patriarch. 

187 



188 THE SEVEN AGES. 

COSTUMES. 

Paul. Dressing-gown or velvet jacket, smoking-cap, white 
pants, slippers. 

Fact. Long brown robe, fastened at the waist with a rope, iron- 
gray wig, full beard. 

Fancy. Female, gay dress, bright ribbons, floating hair. 

Reason. Female, plain white dress, floating hair. 

The Nurse. Calico dress and cap. 

The Schoolboy. Roundabout jacket, short pants, white stock- 
ings, rolling collar and cap. 

The Lover. Light pants, black velvet coat, wide collar spread 
over coat-collar, long black hair, black mustache. 

The Soldier. Military uniform : red coat, blue pants with gilt 
stripes, sash, and sheathed sword at side. 

The Father. Blue coat with brass buttons, dark pants, white 
vest, white necktie, gray wig, gray side-whiskers. 

The Justice (corpulent). Brown coat, breeches and top-boots, 
figured waistcoat, cane. 

The Patriarch. Dressing-gown, nankeen pants, slippers, white 
waistcoat, long white hair, wrinkled face. 



PART I. 

PROLOGUE. 

[Acted on the stage nearest the audience, front of the second 
set of curtains which are closed.] 

Scene. — The painter's studio. Easel, R., with canvas 
on it. Paul seated in front of it, with pallet and brush 
in hand. 
Paid. Mysterious canvas, on thy ghastly face, 

My trembling pencil fails to leave a trace. 

Behind thee lie rich treasures of delight, 

Waiting the mystic touch to charm the sight, 



THE SEVEN AGES. 



189 




190 THE SEVEN AGES. 

Waiting the master-hand to break the seal 
And loose the beauties which thou dost conceal. 
In vain I seek thy stubborn guard to break, 
In vain I pray thy tenants to forsake 
Their prison cells, and with a generous glow, 
On a poor artist their sweet smiles bestow. 
Alas ! All vain ; aloof they flickering stand, 
Mocking the weakness of my unskilled hand. 

for some mighty power to break the chain, 
To tear the veil, and give my fancy rein ! 

Enter Fancy, r. 

Fancy. Here at your call, my master. 

Paul (rises). Do I dream? 

Fancy. Perhaps ; no matter, it doth really seem 
By your remarks that some one's wanted here. 
So I've dropped in to offer you my aid. 
My name is Fancy. 

Paul. Dear delightful maid, 

Welcome, thrice welcome ! Thy bewitching face 
With rays of glory fills this gloomy place. 

Fancy. That's very pretty, — rays of glory. Fine 
Young man, you are a follower of mine ; 

1 read it in those dreamy eyes, that wavy hair, 
That sighing bosom, and that languid air. 

How can I serve you? Speak, and you shall find 
Fancy a mistress bountiful and kind. 

Paul. O gracious mistress, I would win a name, 
I long for glory, and I sigh for fame. 
Upon the canvas 'tis my fond desire 
To fasten beauty, homage to inspire. 



THE SEVEX AGES. 



191 




192 THE SEYEN AGES. 

Alas ! my hand is weak ; I strive in vain 
The dancing, flickering shadows to enchain. 

Fancy. Then come with me ; my realm is beauty's 
home ; 
There all unchecked the master spirits roam, 
Gather bright laurels from the rainbow mints, 
That color-freighted pour the choicest tints. 
Come, revel in my fleecy, cloudland bower ; 
There may be found the talisman of power. 

Paul. Bright seraph, I am thine ; or near or far, 
I'll follow, follow thee forever — 

Enter Fact, l. 

Fact Bah ! 

Humbug ! Ne'er listen to the wily maid. 
Vanishing vapors make her stock in trade ; 
There's naught substantial in the realm she rules, 
Shadows and moonshine are the toys of fools. 
Turn back with me and deal in stubborn facts ; 
Stern hardy life's the loadstone that attracts 
The master spirits of the brush and pen, 
"Who reap bright laurels by portraying men. 

Paul. And who are you ? your garb is very queer, 
Your features rugged, and your speech severe. 

Fact. Men call me Fact. 

Fancy. He is a stubborn thing, 

With neither taste nor beauty, quick to fling 
His gloomy mantle over Fancy's play, 
And with the cry of " Duty" bear away 
Her choicest spirits. Fie upon thee, knave 
Base and ignoble ! thou art Labor's slave. 



THE SEVEN AGES. 



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194 THE SEVEN AGES. 

Fact. Nay, neighbor Fancy, thine's a saucy air, 
A biting tongue for one so debonair; 
Labor's my master, that I free avow ; 
The lordly monarch of the forge and plough, 
The mighty builder and the broadcast sower, 
Who rears and fashions with a matchless power. 
Painter, to win a name, come, rove with me, 
Mid Labor's subjects on the land and sea. 

Fancy. Nay, nay, forbear ; the path is rough to 
tread, 
Fact's pictures are with ugliness o'erspread ; 
The sweating, delving busy life of care 
Can show thee nothing fanciful or fair. 

Fact. 'Twill show thee duty with its aims and ends, 
Wherein much gloom with genial brightness blends. 
If thou be wise, let Fancy cloudward go ; 
She's but a meteor, out of place, below. 

Fancy. Well, you're polite. 

Fact. Thank you. 

Paul. No more ; 

On my account ne'er quarrel I implore. 
I thank you both for the expressed desire 
With power my lagging pencil to inspire. 
You, Fancy, point me to a fairy wold ; 
You, Fact, a stronger, sterner realm unfold ; — 
Now which to choose, I'm very much in doubt. 

Enter Reason, c. (between curtains). 

Beason. Well, my good friend, I've come to let you 

out. 
Paul. Another stranger. 



THE SEVEN AGES. 



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196 THE SEVEN AGES. 

Fact. Ah, good neighbor Reason, 

You're always near. 

Fancy. She's never out of season, 

And always welcome ; let her wise decree 
Settle the difference betwixt you and me. 

Paul. Madam, your visit seems quite apropos. 
Will it please you some good counsel to bestow 
On a poor artist, and for him decide 
Which, Fact. or Fancy, he shall take as guide? 

Reason. Why not take both ? I think, my painter 
friend, 
You'll find that Fact and Fancy closely blend. 
No scene of beauty and no work of skill 
But needs them both perfection to instil. 
The realm that Fancy pictures as divine 
Stern Fact can match with one as good and fine ; 
In fields that Fact obscures with smoke and steam, 
Fancy's embedded jewels brighter gleam. 
Both are your friends ; let them united serve, 
And what they picture do you well observe. 
Ne'er heed their quarrels, they but flirt and flout ; 
The very best of friends sometimes fall out. 
So set to work and clothe the form of Fact 
In Fancy's gayest raiment to attract, 
Then will you tread the path that leads to fame, 
And in its inmost temple carve your name. 
Come, Fact, be stirring, let the painter gaze 
On healthful life in all its devious ways. 
Shakespeare, the foremost of poetic sages, 
Has given to man a scale of seven ages ; 
Disclose them to our fame-desiring friend, 



THE SEVEN AGES. 



1U7 




198 THE SEVEN AGES. 

With brightest hues that Fancy's art can lend. 
To gain his triumphs all your powers combine, 
And let your hands his brow with laurel twine. 

Fact. She argues fairly. 

Fancy. Justly, to my mind. 

I give consent. 

Fact. And I. 

Paul. You're very kind. 

I am your servant, lead me as you will ; 
I long at Genius' fount to drink my fill. 

Reason. Then forward. Industry all thirst assuages. 
Take your first lesson from tile seven ages. 
(Fact takes Paul's right hand and points r. Fancy 

takes his left, Reason steps behind Paul, and points r. 

Curtain falls on picture.) 



PAET II. 

the seven ages. 

Curtain rises as before ; the first stage is bare, the second 
curtains closed. 

Enter the Nurse, with babe in her arms. 

Nurse. " You'd scarce expect one of his age 
To speak in public on the stage," 
So I suppose it's really very natter al 
That for his speech his Nuss should be collateral. 
Well, he's an infant, bless his precious eyes 
. (Don't squirm so, deary, I'll keep off the flies), 



THE SEVEN AGES. 



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200 THE SEVEN AGES. 

A little cherub — (Child cries.) Don't begin to squall, 

You never can deceive the dears at all ; 

They know they are not angels, because why? 

Angels will never drop down from the sky 

To play at human babbies. Massy knows ! 

When their first little game is pains and woes, 

O deary me, I think they are a trial ! 

Dosing with catnip-tea and penny rial. 

And walking nights, now isn't it severe 

On us poor nurses who receive 'em here ? 

" The cry is still they come," for all of that, — 

Bouncers and pigmies, skeleton and fat. 

One half survive, the rest are taken off 

By measles, chicken-pox, and whooping-cough. 

Yet bless 'em, how we love 'em ! (Child cries.) Don't 
you cry, — 

He's stuck his big fist in his little eye. 

Now say good night. (Child cries.) His speech is 
said, 

Exit to " put him in his little bed." [Exit, k. 

(Music — "Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber" Piano. 
Curtains at bach open, disclosing Tableau I. The 
curtains should be open time enough to count, moder- 
ately, fifteen, then closed slowly. Music continues till 
fall of curtain.) 

Enter the School-boy, l. 

School-boy. To school, or not to school, on time, or 
late, 
"We boys oft find a question for debate. 
Study is irksome, good behavior's stiff, 



THE SEVEN AGES. 



201 



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202 THE SEYEN AGES. 

And old Dame Learning's often in a miff; 
'Twixt marks and merits wavering and fickle, 
She sternly rules us with a rod in pickle, 
Impresses strong her lessons on our backs, 
Welted with energy and sealed with whacks. 
" Boys will be boys," we hear the old folks say. 
If they speak true, why rob us of our play? 
For where's the boy, except he be a fool, 
Who, of his choice, would ever go to school? 
His brains to crush 'neath heaps of Roman dust, 
All that remains of that great empire " bust" ; 
To choke and struggle with ill-fated Greece, 
In vain attempt to conquer e'en a peace, 
When sport and exercise their strong arms bare, 
And woo him to the water and the air. 
The light boat waits impatient on the tide, 
Green fields their carpets spread on every side, 
Broad oaks their shadows fling across his way, 
The ball and bat are eager for the play, 
The free air thrills him ; naught can hold him back, 
Except the haunting fear of " Hooking Jack," 
And something better, — born of ancient lore, — 
" The path to fame lies through the school-house door." 

[_Exit, R. 

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After Tableau II. has been shown the usual time, a bell 
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the characters instantly change positions to Tableau III. 
Change, at stroke of bell, to Tableau IV.) 



THE SEVEN AGES. 



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204 THE SEVEN AGES. 



At the fall of the curtain, enter, l., the Lover. He speaks 
and gesticulates in a burlesque, lackadaisical manner. 

Heigh-ho ! heigh-ho ! Ah me ! good gracious ! 

Cupid doth feed with appetite voracious 

Upon my bleeding heart. O Blousabelle, 

Your sparkling eyes enslave me with a spell. 

I am enraptured with your beauteous face ; 

Enthralled, bewitched, by your enchanting grace. 

O darling Blousa ! honey-drop of sweetness ! 

Pink of perfection ! violet of neatness ! 

Would I could press thee to this manly breast ! 

Soft-pillowed there thy golden curls to rest, — 

Thy tender form to guard forevermore, 

Devouring words within thy ears to pour, 

To make this dull earth bloom like paradise. 

Heigh-ho ! ah me ! now wouldn't it be nice ? 

Over a picture of successful love 

My longing eyes too oft delighted rove, 

Let me rehearse for your amusement here 

How Zekiel wooed and won his Hulda dear. 

(Recitation of Lowell's poem, " The Courtin ." Exit 
Lover, r. Lively music. Curtains at back open, dis- 
closing Tableau V, After the usual time, strike the bell, 
and the characters change positions to Tableau VI. At 
sound of bell, change to Tableau VII. Curtain falls, 

Enter Soldier, l. 

Soldier, When Peace, the olive-crowned, with ashen 
face, 
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THE SEVEN AGES. 



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20 G THE SEVEN AGES. 

When Treason stalks abroad, when Riot roars, 
When Crime grows rampant, and Rebellion soars, 
The Soldier, armed and mailed with martial power, 
Stands forth the master-spirit of the hour. 
The loud drum thrills him with its wild alarms, 
The clash of steel his manly bosom warms, 
The whirr of bullets and the cannon's roar 
Make the hot blood in quicker currents pour, 
Till, filled from crown to toe with bloody zeal, 
No foeman can resist his crushing heel. 
Up ! on the ramparts, where with fierce assail 
And deadly purpose, ploughs the iron hail ; 
Down ! in the pit where ambush lieth low, 
Fearless, defiant, leaps he on the foe. 
So brave, so valiant, Glory doth delight 
To wreathe his brow with laurels green and bright. 
But when across the field of Labor's life 
Peals the loud trump, dread harbinger of strife ; 
When through the workshop, busy marts of trade, 
Through student's study, 'neath the classics' shade, 
Through fashion's halls, where folly rules the hour, 
Through homes that cherish love's domestic power, 
Sounds the shrill notes that wake the hearts of all 
To hurry forward at their country's call, 
Sternly as Patriot he doth nobly stand 
Against all foes to guard his native land. 
A nation's gratitude, with smiles and tears, 
Freshens his memory all the coming years ; 
And grand old Freedom, midst her brightest joys, 
Points proudly to her gallant soldier boys. 

[Exit, R. 



THE SEVEN AGES. 



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208 THE SEVEN AGES. 

{Curtains at back are drawn, disclosing Tableau VIII. 
Do not follow strictly the positions in the drawing, but 
make the picture animated and striking. Music should 
be of a martial character. Curtain falls.) 

Enter the Father, l. 

Father. And what's a father? Some say an old 
fellow 
With hair turned gray, and features turning yellow, 
Full of his aches and pains, — a queer old chap 
For whom his family don't care a rap, 
Save that he pays the bills, keeps out of sight, 
And locks the house up carefully at night. 
Some say a tyrant, ruling with a sneer, 
All frowns and wrinkles, with a voice severe 
For youthful follies, and a stinging snap 
When pealing laughter robs him of his nap. 
And some say — bless them ! — he's earth's paragon, 
The kindest mortal that the sun shines on ; 
For all our woes, the ever-ready friend, 
With kindly heart, to cheer and comfort lend. 
Of all our joys, so ready e'er to share, 
Warmed by his smile, they seem more bright and fair. 
On all our secrets locks the trusty door, 
And proves himself a confidant secure 
For all our follies, eager to advise, 
Lenient, forgiving, generous, and wise. 
Half-way betwixt the cradle and the grave, 
Washed by a sea of troubles, wave on wave, 
The father takes his place, a beacon-light 
To guide the wayward bark of youth aright. 



THE SEVEN AGES. 



209 




14 



210 THE SEVEN AGES. 

The fierce and angry winds of strife may roar, 
Misfortune's sullen clouds may hover o'er, 
Yet through the darkest night of fear and woe, 
The light of love, with calm and steady glow, 
Flashes upon the tossed and sin-opprest, 
A talismanic harbinger of rest. 
Honor the father ! History's bright page 
Records his sacrifice in every age. 
Turn backward to the ancient Roman days, 
When stern Virginius did the world amaze. 
When wicked Sextus — vile and crafty knave ! — 
The fair Virginia sought to make his slave, 
The noble father, with his cruel knife, 
Her honor saved at cost of her dear life ; 
Look on this picture, let its teachings prove 
Fathers can slay as well as save for love. [Exit, R. 

(Sad music. Curtains open, disclosing- Tableau IX. 
Curtain falls.) 

Enter the Justice, l. 

Justice. Well, what's the matter? Burglary or theft? 
Why am I rudely of my rest bereft ? 
Whose hencoop's plundered? Hey? whose ducks and 

geese 
Ha e sloped with some despoiler of the peace? 
What murderous youngster has been breaking bones, 
Or smashing windows with obdurate stones? 
Hey ? No complaint ? well, this is very queer ; 
I thought I heard a call for " Justice " here, 
And I'm that high, official dignitary, 
Learned, pompostuous, disciplined, and wary, 



THE SEVEN AGES. 



211 




212 THE SEVEN AGES. 

Whose frown doth terrify the sneaking scamp 
With dreams of iron bars and dungeons damp. 
Ahem ! the squeak of law is in my -tread ; 
From off my path wild urchins slink with dread ; 
The biggest blackguard of a saucy crew 
Shuts fast his mouth whene'er I come in view ; 
The straight-laced deacon with his stiffened back, 
The learned doctor, the successful quack, 
The gifted parson, and the man of wealth, 
Admiring glances cast at me by stealth, 
Because I hold the scales that win or lose, 
And make them bend whichever way I choose, — 
That is — of course — by interlectual sway. 
I'm always right, — the scales the right obey, — 
And so I'm ready to enforce the laws, 
And find a verdict in a righteous cause, 
Provided that the culprit is not rich, 
For in that case my fingers always itch 
To place across the bridge of this wise nose 
A pair of spectacles with golden bows. [Exit, R. 

{Music. Curtains open, disclosing Tableau X. Curtain 
falls.) 

Enter the Patriarch, l. 

Patriarch. " Last scene of all, which ends this strange 
eventful history, 
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion." 
Nay, nay, good master Shakespeare, thou art wrong, 
For richest joys around the aged throng. 
Upon the record of ascending years, 
Oft flecked with sunshine, blotted oft with tears, 



THE SEVEN AGES. 213 

Where can be found so kind and true a friend 
As keen-eyed Memory, who doth freely lend 
Unto the " seventh age" her matchless power, 
To deck and glorify the sunset hour ? 
Upon the patriarch she doth free bestow 
Her brightest jewels plucked from long ago : 
Pleasures of youth, deep buried in the past, 
Wakened to life, come merrily trooping past ; 
Triumphs of manhood, with new laurels crowned, 
And prouder bearing, thickly gather round. 
The babe, the youth, the lover, soldier, sage, 
Each in his time displays again his age ; 
Each at the summons will repeat his part, 
And all are welcome to the old man's heart. 
What scene of happiness so pure and bright 
As " home, sweet home," the temple of delight, 
Wherein the patriarch as an honored guest 
Beloved, respected, finds a welcome rest, 
Until the Master's messenger of peace 
Shall bid life's sentinel his watch to cease ! 
Then ends the journey, then earth's race is run, 
Then the eternal age is entered on. [Exit, r. 

(Music, "Home, sweet Home" Curtain opens, disclosing 
Tableau XI. Bell strikes, and change to Tableau 
XII Music sad and soft until the curtain falls. 

CURTAIN. 



THE BOSTON DIP. 



A COMEDIETTA, IN ONE ACT. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Moses Mulla*grub, once- Proprietor of a 

Fish-cart, now a rich Speculator. 
Monsieur Adonis, a Dancing-Master. 
Mr. Richard Dasher, a Fast Man. 
Mr. Lavender Kids, an Exquisite. 
Mrs. Moses Mulligrub. 
Miss Ida Mulligrub. 
Miss Eva Mulligrub. 



COSTUMES. 

Full Evening Dress. 



Scene. — Handsome drawing room in Monsieur Adonis's 
Academy. Entrances, it., l., and c. Lounges, R. and 
L. Screen, l. corner, hack. Two chairs, R. and l. of 
door in flat. 

215 



216 THE BOSTON DIP. 



Music, as curtain rises, Straus 1 s waltz, u Beautiful Blue 
Danube." Miss Ida and Miss Eva discovered lualtz- 
ing, introducing " The Boston Dip." They waltz a few 
moments, then stop. Music ceases. 

Ida. Now, isn't that delightful ? 

Eva. Delightful ! It's positively bewitching. Bless 
that dear Monsieur Adonis. He deserves a crown of 
roses for introducing to his assembly the latest Terpsi- 
chorean novelty. O, we shall have a splendid time to- 
night ! 

Ida. Especially as those charming waltzers, Messrs. 
Ttichard Dasher and Lavender Kids, " the glass of 
fashion and the mould of form," are to honor us with 
their presence. 

Eva. Yes, indeed. What would the dance be without 
them ? 

Ida. Not worth the trouble of dressing. But don't 
you think that Mr. Dasher is a little too attentive to Miss 
Eva Mulligrub, — eh, sister? 

Eva. Not more attentive, certainly, than is Mr. Laven- 
der Kids to her charming sister, Miss Ida Mulligrub. — 
Eh, sister? 

Ida. But seriously, Eva, I begin to think that you 
are carrying this matter a little too far. Mr. Dasher 
might reasonably expect, from the partiality you unhesi- 
tatingly show for his society, and the smiles you bestow 
upon him, to be considered your lover. 

Eva. You begin to think. Why, bless you, Ida, I've 
thought and thought and thought, for a long time, that 



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THE BOSTON DIP. 217 

were I Mr. Lavender Kids, I should pop the question at 
"once, so undeniably entranced are you by his attentions. 

Ida. Eva ! 

Eva. Ida ! 

Ida. You're talking nonsense. 

Eva. Well, you began it. 

Ida. But you know you like Mr. Dasher. 

Eva. To be sure I do. He's the best waltzer in the 
city. Graceful, agreeable, and decidedly good-looking. 

Ida. And you would marry hirn ? 

Eva. Not unless he asked me, and then — 

Ida. And then — 

Eva. I should remember that he is considered a for- 
tune-hunter, that he is too fond of horses, that possibly 
he might have an eye on father's bank-book, that I don't 
want such a husband, and should very sweetly, calmly, 
but decidedly say, No, thank you, Mr. Dasher. 

Ida. Exactly what I should say to Mr. Kids, without 
the sweetness and calmness. 

Eva. I hope we shall not have the chance, for then, 
of course, we should lose their society — and they are 
such superb waltzers. 

Ida. But what in the world could have possessed 
mother to have us come so early. Hurry, girls, hurry ! 
And here we are before the hall is lighted. 

Eva. I'm sure I don't know. It's one of her whims. 
One would hardly think that, at her age, she would care 
for dancing. 

Ida. But she does. I caught her to-day attempting a 
waltz before the glass in her room ; and such work as she 
did make of it ! 



218 THE BOSTON DIP. 

Eva. She's not very nimble with her weight of years 
and flesh, but she would come to-night, and without 
father, too. 

Ida. Catch him in such a place ! No doubt he's 
already snoring at home in his easy-chair, speculating on 
corner lots in his dreams. 

Eva. Better that than the old life, dragging a hand- 
cart through the streets, and shouting, " Cod ! haddock ! 
halibut ! eel — eel — eel — eels ! " 

Ida. Why, Eva, don't speak of that ; and such a 
noise, too. 

Eva. Who cares. Everybody knows what we once 
were, and I, for one, am not going to be ashamed of father's 
old occupation. He has made money in an honest way : 
so let us have no false pride, Ida. " Cod ! haddock ! hali- 
but ! eel — eel — eel — eels ! " 

Enter Mrs. Mulligrub, c. 

Mrs.. M. Well, I never ! Eva Mulligrub, I'm blush- 
ing with shame, petrified with mortification, and stunned 
with grief, to hear such words as those proceeding from 
your lips. I never heard such language before, never. 

Eva. Why, mother ! And I've heard father say those 
very words brought you to the window many a time 
when he passed ; that they were the bait by which you 
were caught, and that you were the best catch he ever 
made. 

Mrs. M. Fiddle-de-de ! That's his twaddle. We're 
above such language now. But come, girls, fix me up ! 
I'm all coming to pieces. Is that what's-its-name behind 
all right, and this thingumbob on my neck, and the what- 



THE BOSTON DIP. 219 

you-may-call-it on top of my head? Dear ine, I'm all in 
a pucker. 

Ida. Everything about your dress is charming, 
mother. 

Mrs. 31. Well, I'm glad on't. Now girls, look here, 
I've made an assignment with Munseer What's-his-name 
to-night. 

Eva. A what? 

Ida. Assignment? You mean an appointment. 

Mrs. 31. Well, it's all the same. I'm going to learn 
to do that dipper thing, if I die for it. 

Eva. I don't understand. 

Ida. She means The Boston Dip. 

Mrs. 31. That's it — where you go tipping about, 
while the fiddlers play Struse's Beautiful Blue Dan-?/-by. 

Eva. You. mother, learn to waltz ! 

3L's. 31. And why not? There's Mrs. What's-her- 
narne gets through it, and she's older and heavier than I. 
I'm going to learn it. "What's the use of having money 
if you can't spin round like other folks. But don't say a 
word to your father. Bless me, how he would roar ! Bi.t 
he's safe at home, snoozing in his chair by this time. I've 
arranged it all. I've engaged this drawing-room for my 
own party, and when you're all dancing in the hall, 
Munseer A — A — what's-his-name will slip in here, and 
practice the waltz with me, and nobody will know any- 
thing about it until I'm deficient. 

Ida. Proficient, mother. 

3Irs. 31. Well, what's the difference? It's all ar- 
ranged. I'm not going to make a fool of myself before 
folks when I can pay for private lessons. 



220 THE BOSTON DIP. 

Dasher apjoears, c. 

Dasher (load). Eureka! 

Mrs. M. (starting). Good gracious ! You what? 

Dasher. u Fortune favors the brave." Like Caesar, 
I came, I saw, and I'm overcome. May I come in? 

Mrs. M. Certainly, Mr. Dasher. Your presence always- 
adds a charm to our — what's-its-name — circular. 

Ida. Circle, mother. 

Mrs. M. Well, what's the odds? 

Dasher. Thank you, Mrs. Mulligrub. You are ar- 
rayed like an empress ; Miss Ida, your costume is only 
eclipsed by your charming face ; Miss Eva — 

Eva. " Last but not least in our dear love," must of 
course be divine ; so spare my blushes and your breath. 
(Sits on lounge, r.) 

Dasher. Thank you. And now congratulate me. I 
threw down my pen, after a hard fight with figures, to 
seek the lonely recesses of my bachelor's quarters, hear- 
tily sick of life, when it suddenly occurred to me that this 
evening Monsieur Adonis gives one of his charming as- 
semblies. Perhaps, thought I, there I may find rest fo/ 
my weary brain from the figures of the ledger, which 
are dancing in my head, in the figures of the dance. But 
did I dream of falling into such charming society ? No ; 
most emphatically and decidedly, no. Therefore, like 
Csesar — 

Mrs. M. And pray, Mr. Dasher, who is this Caesar 
you're making such a fuss about? 

Ida. "Why, mother ! 

Mrs. M. La, child, there's nobody of that name I'm 
acquainted with. 



THE BOSTON DIP. '221 

Ida. You know, mother, Cassar was the great Roman 
general, who — 

Mrs. 31. La. yes ; Mr. Dasher was only speaking 
rnetagorically. Caesar was the man who crossed the 
what's-its-name, and was stabbed by a brute. 

Eva. Never mind Caesar. Here's my card, Mr. 
Dasher. Of course your name will be the first I shall 
allow upon it. 

Dasher (sits on lounge beside Eya). Am I to be so 
highly honored. (Takes card.) 

Eva. For a waltz, and only one. 

Mrs. 31 La, child, don't be so unscrupulous. You'll 
dance till you drop if you get a chance. 

Ida. Hush, mother. 

Mrs, 31. Now what's the matter with you? Mr. 
What's -hi s-name will dance with you, too. Don't be so 
anxious. 

Ida. 0, clear, was there ever such a torment. (Sits 

on lounge, L.) 

Enter Kids, c. 

Kids (with glass to his eye). Now, weally ! Havel 
stumbled into the bodwaw of a bevy of enchanting god- 
desses? — have I. weally? 

Ida. 0, Mr. Kids ! 

Eva. You have, weally. Mr. Kids. 

Dasher. Lavender, my boy, how are you? 

Kids. And will the divine goddesses permit me to 
entaw, to disturb their tableawof beauty with my horwid 
figgaw ? 

E va. Yes, trot your horwid figgaw in, Mr. Kids. 

31rs. 31. Eva, I'm astonished at such lamrua^e as 

1 CO 

those. Mr. Kids, we are delighted to see you. 



222 THE BOSTON DIP. 

Ida. Yes, indeed, Mr. Kids. I've kept my card for 
you. 

Kids. Divine creachaw, you overpowaw me — you do, 
weally. (Sits on lounge beside Ida, and takes her card.) 
Just one waltz ? 

Eva. As many as you please, Mr. Kids. 

Mrs. M. Now that's what I call generous. I won- 
der where Mr. — no, Munseer — Adonis can be. (Re- 
tires up.) 

Eva. Mr. Dasher, how can you tell such falsehoods, 
when you know, that I know, that you know, we were to 
be here to-night. 

Dasher. What a knowing young lady. It's one of 
the frailties of masculine nature, Miss Eva. I'm glad I 
was not George Washington, for I should certainly have 
spoiled that hatchet story by a lie. Now I am here, 
dear Miss Eva, overpowered with the burden of a 
weighty secret, I am going to disclose it. I — I — 

Kids. I say, Dashaw, I've had my bwains surveyed 
to-day. 

Dasher. Have you ? I didn't know you had any. 

Kids. Yaas, several. Destwuctiveness, combativeness, 
idolitwy — 

Dasher. Ideality. 

Kids. Yaas, it's vewry weniarkable how those phwen- 
ological fella ws lay out your bwains, and name them just 
like — aw — stweets. 

Dasher (aside). They must have labeled some of 
yours " No Thoroughfare." 

Eva. O, don't talk about brains, Mr. Kids. The 
discussion of such a subject might fly to your head. 



THE BOSTON DIP. 223 

Dasher. And so light is the material there, cause a 
conflagration. 

Kids. Yaas, yaas, like a Mansard woof. And, Dashaw, 
I've got a diwectory of my bwains, and it's deucedly 
clevaw ; for if an ideah gets into my bwains, I can trace 
it out in the diwectory, and tell just where it lies, you 
know, and know just where to find it. Deuced clevaw. 

Dasher (aside). 'Twould die of starvation before you 
found it. 

Mrs. 31. (comes down). Ah, here's Munseer Adonis 

at last ! 

Enter Monsieur Adonis, r. 

Jlons. A. Charmant, charmant, leedies and gentimen, 
I kees your hands. You do me proud. I feel ze glow 
of satisfaction in ze inermost inside of zis bosom, when 
you do me ze grande honneur to grace my salon wiz your 
presence. I feel ze glow all ovar. 

Mrs. 3f. O, Munseer Adonis ! 

Eva. Politest of Frenchmen. 

Ida. Paragon of dancing-masters. 

Jlons. A. Pardon me, charmant medmoiselles and 
adorable madam, if ze modest blush of shame paint my 
cheek wiz ze hues of ze roses. I am ze humble instru- 
ment of ze divine art which gives ze grace to ze figure, 
and ze airy lightness to ze beautiful toes of madam and 
ze charmant medmoiselles. 

Eva. Xow, Munseer Adonis, we are all impatience. 
"When will the dance begin? 

Mons. A. On ze instant. Ze company have assemble 
in ze grande salon. When madam and her friends make 
ze grande entree, zen will ze'music strike ze signal. 

Ida. We are all ready. 



224 THE BOSTON DIP. 

Mrs. M. Munseer Adonis, one word with you. 

Mons. A. Wiz ze uttermost pleasure. Am I not ze 
slave of ze matchless madam (aside) and her money. 
(They retire up stage, and converse.) 

Dasher. Miss Eva, I must have an interview with 
you this evening. I have much to say. Meet me here 
in half an hour. 

Eva. Certainly. I'll slip away at the first opportu- 
nity. 

Dasher. Thank you. The first dance is mine, you 
remember. 

Kids. Aw, Miss Ida, I must speak with you alone ; I 
must, weally. There's something on ray bwain — no — 
on my bweast, that must be weiieved. Don't go. Stay 
behind with me. 

Ida. And lose the first dance ? — No, indeed. 

Kids. Weally, I couldn't ask that. Couldn't you con- 
twive to meet me here alone? 

Ida. At the first opportunity. I'll do my best. 
(Bises.) Eva, one moment. 

Eva (rises and comes, c). Well, dear? 

Ida. Don't you think, Mr. Kids wants me to meet 
him here alone. 

Eva. Does he? The same thought must have wan- 
dered into his bwain that crept into Mr. Dasher's, for he 
expects me to meet him here alone. 

Ida. Do you know what it all means ? 

Eva. Certainly — proposals. 

Ida. And will you permit Mr. Dasher — 

Eva. No, indeed. Marry that fickle thing ? Never ! 

Ida. Exactly my mind. Mr. Kid's a fool. 



THE BOSTON DIP. 225 

Eva. But, like Mr. Dasher, a splendid waltzer. "We 
cannot afford to lose them. 

Ida. Indeed we cannot. Partners are so scarce. 

Eva. They want father's money. 

Ida. But they must not have his daughters. 

Eva. Xo, indeed. You watch me, and I'll watch 
you, and there'll be no proposals. (Retire to R. and l. 
Monsieur Adoxis and Mrs. Mulligrub come down 
stage.) 

Mrs. 31. And you got my note, Munseer Adonis ? 

Jlons. A. Ah, madam, I have it next my heart. (Pro- 
duces an envelope, opens it, takes out note, puts envelope in 
his pocket. Beads.) " Meet me in the private drawing- 
room when ze company are waltzing. Do not fail me. 
Hannah Mulligrub." Zat is all it say. 

Mrs. 21. But you know what it means. I am anxious 
to learn u The Boston Dip." Were I to come to your 
school I should be laughed at, but here, while the com- 
pany are waltzing, no one would know it, and the inspir- 
ing music would aid me. I don't want to make a fool 
of myself, you understand. 

Jlons. A. Certainly. All zat I shall remember. I 
have written on ze back of ze note " Boston Dip." I put 
him in ze pocket wiz my handkerchief, so zat when I 
pull him out to wipe my face ze note will arrest my at- 
tention, and I shall fly to you, madam. (Puts note and 
handkerchief in his pocket.) 

Mrs. 21. 0, you Frenchmen are so inveterate. 

Dasher. Come, Monsieur Adonis, the dance, the 
dance ! I'm all impatience (aside to Eva) for its 
end. 

15 



226 THE BOSTON DIP. 

Kids. Weally, the delay is vexatious ; it is,-weally. 
{Aside to Ida.) Meet me here, you know. 

Mons. A. Pardon me, I am all impatience. Char- 
Qnanty madam, shall I have ze pleasure. (Offers his arm to 
Mrs. Mulligrub.) Ze night is ver warm, ver warm. 
(Music, " Beautiful Blue Daniiber Monsieur Adonis 
takes out his handkerchief. The note falls on stage. He 
wipes Ms face, passes out door, r., followed by Dasher 
and Eva, Kids and Ida.) 

Kilter Mulligrub, c. 

Mulligrub. So, so, here we are, Mrs. Mulligrub, un- 
expectedly, and no doubt unwelcome. You imagine 
the old codger snoozing away at home, but here he 
is, and wide awake too. It's about time the head of 
the house knew what is going on. And here's where the 
money goes. Well, who cares? There's lots of it, so 
let it fly. But I've a wonderful curiosity to know how 
my Hannah carries herself among all these fine snobs, 
so I'm bound to have a peep. (Goes towards door, r. 
Sees note on carpet.) Hallo ! what's this? a billy-deux? 
(Picking it up.) Where's my specs? (Beads.) " Meet 
me " — ho, ho ! here's a nice little plot — (reads) — t; in 
the private drawing-room " — that's here — (reads) — 
" while the company are waltzing. Do not fail me. 
Hannah Mulligrub." My wife ! Ye gods and little 
fishes ! my wife. " Do not fail me." Is this the reward 
of my generosity ? My wife ! What does it mean ? 
Who is the scoundrel that is tampering with the affec- 
tions of Hannah, and the peace of Moses Mulligrub? 
(Turns note over.) " Boston Dip." Who's he ? " Bos- 



THE BOSTON DIP. 227 

ton Dip." There's a name. Fve heard of the " Man- 
chester Pet," and the " Dublin Baby," but the " Boston 
Dip," — confound him, let me get hold of him, and I'll 
Christen him with a dip that will drown him. Here's 
nice goings on ! A respectable wife, and a mother, too, 
making an appointment with an individual bearing such 
a name as that — ''Boston Dip." He shall not fail you, 
Mrs. M., but he must meet me too. I'll not stir from 
this place until I know what this means. This comes of 
letting women roam abroad when they should be kept at 
home. 0, Mrs. Mulligrub ! if I don't cut down your pin 
money for this my name's not Moses Mulligrub. I'll not 
leave you a pin to stand on. {Takes chair; slams it 
down, C.) '* Boston Dip." (Sits, a n d jumps up.) Gra- 
cious ! he must be a sparrer, and that's his fighting 
name. Xo matter, let him come on. (Sparring.) The 
old man's a little out of practice, but he's game. (Sits; 
his arms.) If this little party does not end in a 
shindy, it won't be my fault. 

Dasher backs in, R., leaving his handkerchief. 

Dasher. Does she mean to come? I cannot attract 
her attention. (Backs up still, leaving his handkerchief.) 
Why don't she come? (Backs against Mulligrub's 
chair, sending it over, and Mulligrub on to the floor.) 
I beg your pardon. 

Mulligrub (picking himself up). Sir! 

Dasher. I really beg your pardon. Did you break 
anything? 

Mulligrub. Xo, sir ; but I shall presently break the 
peace and your head. 



228 THE BOSTON DIP. 

Dasher. I beg you won't do anything of the kind. It 
was an accident ; and besides, you are trespassing here. 

Mulligrub. O, I am ! And pray, sir, will you be kind 
enough to explain the meaning of that remark? 

Dasher. Certainly. This is Mrs. Mulligrub's private 
drawing-room, where none but her friends are allowed 
to enter. 

Mulligrub. Indeed ! (Aside.) This must be " Dip." 
(Aloud.) We'll, sir, I am one of her friends — a partic- 
ular friend. 

Dasher. I see : an old friend of the family. You're 
just the man I want to see. Yes, sir, the moment I set 
eyes on you I said to myself, " There's a man who can 
serve me." 

Mulligrub. Indeed — (aside) with a broken head. 

Dasher. Yes, sir. You know old Mulligrub? 

Mulligrub (aside). Old Mulligrub! (Aloud.) Inti- 
mately. 

Dasher. Good. I've never seen him, but people say 
he's immensely rich. What do you say? Will he cut up 
well? 

Mulligrub (aside). " Cut up ! " Confound his impu- 
dence. 

Dasher. I've particular reasons for wishing to know. 
I may say, I am very much attached to a member of his 
family, you understand. I'm not mercenary ; but you 
know times are hard, and to make a respectable show in 
society, have a nice house, a half dozen fast horses, and 
all that sort of thing, requires money. Now, what I 
want to know is this, will the old man shell out? 

Mulligrub. Shell out? Look here, young man, for 



THE BOSTON DIP. 229 

coolness you certainly would take the premium at the 
largest display of frozen wares in Alaska. If I don't 
answer your polite questions, it is because your audacity 
has so astounded me, that, hang me, if I know whether 
there is an old Mulligrub to " cut up " or " shell out " at 
all. (Aside.) It must certainly be " Dip." 

Dasher. 0, you won't tell. Hush! there's somebody 
coming — somebody who I am particularly anxious to 
meet alone, you understand. Just step out of that door 
(pointing, c), that's a good fellow. 

Mulligrub. Sir, I shall do nothing of the kind. 

Dasher. But you must — only for a moment, and then 
you shall return. (Pushes him back.) 

Mulligrub. Sir, do you know who I am? 

Dasher. Certainly ; a friend of the family ; and, as a 
friend of the family, when the time comes you shall know 
all. Now go, that's a good fellow. (Pushes him bach to 
door, c.) 

Mulligrub. But, sir, I shall not. (Aside.) Stop. 
I'll watch. (Aloud.) Very well, sir ; as I seem to be in 
the way, I will retire. 

Dasher. I knew you would — you're such a good 
fellow. 
^f^ Mulligrub. Good fellow ! (Aside.) Confound his 
impudence. [Exit, c. 

Dasher. Ha, ha ! Got rid of him. (Comes down stage. 

v Mulligrub enters, c, and steps behind screen.) Now for 

* a tender interview with Miss Eva, ending in a proposal, 

which I know she will accept. (Enter *Eva, c.) I knew 

you would come. 

Eva. Because I promised. O, Mr. Dasher, that 
waltz was delightful. 



230 THE BOSTON DIP. 

Dasher. Indeed ! I am glad you enjoyed it. If it 
gave you pleasure I should be satisfied, though my heart 
is heavy, and the waltz had little inspiration for me. 

Eva. Dear me, Mr. Dasher, you look as melancholy 
as an owl. What has gone wrong ? 

Dasher. Nothing — everything — Miss Eva. I am 
on the verge of a precipice, a frightful precipice. (Mul- 
ligrub's head appears above screen.) 

Mulligrub (aside). There's "Dip" and — Eva, as I 
live ! 

Eva. I don't understand you, Mr. Dasher. 

Dasher. Upon the verge of a frightful precipice I tot- 
ter. Beneath me are the whitened bones of many a mor- 
tal. If I fall not a tear will be shed for me. 

Mulligrub (aside). Nary a tear, young man.. 

Dasher. 'Tis the valley of disappointed hopes. 

Mulligrub (aside). Dip's getting grave. 

Dasher. Into this must I fall, unless the succoring 
hand be stretched forth to me. 

Mulligrub (aside) . The sucker ! 

Dasher. You, Miss Eva, you — admirable, divine, 
angelic — can stretch forth that hand to save Dasher 
from dashing himself into the valley. 

Eva. Mr. Dasher, have you been drinking? 

Dasher. Draughts of bliss from the fountain of love : 
basking in the sunshine of your presence. O, Miss Eva, 
will you save me ? 

Eva. Once again, Mr. Dasher, I tell you I do not un- 
derstand you. 

Mulligrub (aside). 'Twould puzzle a Dutchman. 

. Dasher. Have I then been mistaken ? have those little 



THE BOSTON DIP. 231 

delicate attentions which I fondly imagined were gaining 
for me a corner on yonr heart — ah, I mean in your 
heart — been wasted on the desert air? 
MulUgrub (aside). Dip's getting airy. 
Dasher. On the brink of a precipice I stand — 
MulUgrub (aside). On the rocks again, Dip. 
Dasher. Can you see me rush headlong to ruin, an- 
gelic Eva. 

MulUgrub (aside). Dip's getting high — 
Dasher. You are the star of my destiny ; you are the 
prize for which I strive, you are the divinity of my ador- 
ation. Here on my knees — (Fedls on his knees L. of 
Eva.) I swear nothing shall part us. 

Enter Ida, r., hurriedly. 

Ida. 0, quick, quick, Eva ! I've got you such a 
partner ! He's all impatience. Quick ! the music is just 
about to commence. I wouldn't have you lose him for 
the world. 

Eva. But Ida — 

Ida. Don't stop to talk. Come quick ! quick ! (Drags 
her of, E.) 

Mulligrub (aside). Ha, ha! Dip's left on the brink 
again. 

Dasher (jumping up). Confound that girl ! I've lost 
the chance. This comes of making a long story about a 
very short question. The precipice was a failure. I'll 
go and pump the friend of the family. (Exit, c. Mulli- 
grub coiiies from screen.) 

Mulligrub. That can't be Dip, after all. He's after 
Eva. But he can't have her. Thanks to his confiden- 



232 THE BOSTON DIP. 

tial assurance, I can send him over the precipice into 
the valley of disappointed hopes in short order. 

Enter Kids, c. 

Kids, Now weally, I saw Miss Ida enter this woom, 
positively saw her, and now she's gone. Hallo ! an in- 
trudaw. Sir, I have not the honow of your acquaintance. 
This woom is the wesort, the westing-place of a bevy of 
divine goddesses. No masculine mortals are allowed to 
entaw here. 

Midligrub. Show ! then you are not a masculine mor- 
tal, I take it. 

Kids. Sir, you are impertinent. I am — I am a par- 
ticular fwiend of the lady who is the lawful possessor of 
this wesort. 

Midligrub (aside). Can this be Dip ? (Aloud.) Sir, 
[ am a particular friend of the lady in question, being the 
brother of her husband's brother. 

Kids. Weally, the bwover of her husband's bwover. 
Pon honow, that's a sort of cwoss-eyed welation. 

Midligrub. What do you mean by that? Do you 
doubt my right to be here ? 

Kids. Hey? wight? — no, no. (Aside.) He must 
be a witch welation. (Aloud.) Do you know Mr. Mul- 
ligwub ? 

Midligrub. Intimately. 

Kids. I say, would it be a good inwestment to wun 
away with a membaw of his family ? 

Midligrub (aside). It must be Dip. Shall I mash 
him? No, no, the proof first. (Aloud.) Splendid! 
Can I help you? 



THE BOSTON DIP. 233 

Kids. "Well, I don't know. He's a wough specimen, 
and he so vulgaw. Sold fish in a handcart, too. I de- 
test fish, it's on such a low scale. Now isn't that good? 
It's owiginal, too. I don't like the odaw. Dreadful low 
people, but then, there's lots of money. Yaas, I think I 
will sacwafice myself. 

Mulligrub (aside). I'll sacrifice you, you monkey. 
(Aloud.) But tell me, who is the favored member of the 
family ? 

Kids. Hush ! somebody's coming. You must re- 
tire. 

Mulligrub. What, and lose the fun? No, I thank 
you. 

Kids. You must, weally. The lady is coming. It 
would shock her delicate nerves were you to be pwesent 
at the interview. So go, that's a dear fellah. (Pushes 
him back, c.) 

Mulligrub (aside). He calls me a good fellah. Shall 
I fell him on the spot ? No, I'll wait ; vengeance can 
afford to wait. 

Kids. Do wetire, and, when it's all ovaw, I will call 
you. (Pushes him bach, c.) Good fellah. 

Mulligrub. You'll call me when it's all over. (Aside.) 
I'll be on hand while it's going on. [Exit, c. 

Kids. There, the bwover of the husband's bwover is 
excluded from the apartment of the wife of the bwover's 
husband — no, that ain't it, it's the bwover's wife's hus- 
band — no, or — (Mulligrub enters, c, and gets behind 
screen.) Here she comes, lovely as a poppy, because 
she's got a rich poppy. That's good — owiginal, too. 



234 THE BOSTON DIP. 

Enter Ida, r. 

Ida. Here I am, Mr. Kids, to fulfill my promise. 

Kids. Yaas, Miss Ida, like the bounding fawn that- — 
that — weally, I forget what the bounding fawn was 
doing — O, weally, bounding, of course. That's very 
good — isn't it? — owiginal, too. But where was the 
bounding fawn bound? that's the question. 

Ida. I wish I could answer your question, but, not 
being versed in natural history, I am unable to say. 

Kids. Weally. Well, never mind the fawn. Listen, 
O, listen ! I'm a miserable wretch, I am. 

Ida. Miserable? you? 

Kids. Yaas, weally. I'm standing — I'm standing, 
— where am I standing? — O, on the bwink of a howid 
pwecipice. 

Mulligrub (sticking his head above screen). Hallo! 
another brink, another precipice, and — Ida, as I live. 

Ida. La, Mr. Kids, what a dangerous position. 

Malligrub (aside). Kids ; then it's not Dip, that's certain. 

Kids. 0, dweadful, dweadful. But you can save me. 

Ida. How, Mr. Kids? 

Kids. That's the ideah, Miss Ida ; for when a fellah 
is on the bwink of such a pwecipice, as the pwecipice I 
am on the bwink of, the best way to save him is to push 
him ovaw. 

Ida. Well, that's certainly an original idea. 

Kids. Yaas, it is an owiginal, idea — mine, too — I 
found it in my bwain, with the help of the diwectory. 
When a fellah's on the bwink of matwimony, of course 
his safety and his happiness is secured by his being 
pushed into it. You see my ideah. 



THE BOSTON DIP. 235 

Mulligrub (aside). Deuced clumsy one. 

Ida. But how can I help you? 

Kids. By pushing me ovaw. Miss Ida, you are be- 
witching, you are lovely, you are divine, and on my 
knees I ask you (falls on his hiees l. of Ida) to give 
me a push. 

Mulligrub (aside). Confounded jackass. 

Ida.- But, Mr. Kids, I don't understand. You're so 
— so — (Aside.) Where can Eva be? (Ahud.) You 
say you are on the brink of a precipice. 

Kids. Howid, howid ; and if you consent to be — 

Enter Eva, r. 

Eva. Quick, quick, Ida ! mother's fainted. 

Ida. You don't mean it? 

Eva. Yes, yes, come quick ! What are you wait- 
ing for? 

Ida. But Mr. Kids is on the brink of a precipice. 

Eva. Let him stay there. Come with me. (Drags 
Eva off, r.) 

Mulligrub (aside). Won't somebody be kind enough 
to remove that precipice? 

Kids (rising). Yaas, weally, that owiginal ideah 
will kill me, I know it will. I must go and bathe my 
head in Cologne, I must weally. Miss Ida didn't push 
well ; in fact, I don't believe she's fond of pushing fel- 
lah's ovaw, I don't, weally. [Exit, c. 

Mulligrub (comes from behind screen). I don't think 
that's Dip — I don't, weally. Egad ! those girls of 
mine are determined not to be caught by. chaff. I 
wonder if I can say as much for the old lady. I wish 



236 THE BOSTON DIP. 

she would make her appearance. This must be the 
room. Ah, here she comes. Now for something in- 
teresting. (Runs behind screen.) 

Enter Mrs. Mulligrub, r. 

Mrs. M. The fiddlers are tuning up for a waltz, and 
if Munseer Adonis is to keep his word now is the 
time. I wonder what Moses would say if he knew 
what I was about. But he can't know. Pie's safe at 
home, and there's certainly no harm ia obtaining a 
graceful inquisition to my other accomplishments. (Music, 
Beautiful Blue Danube, soft and low.) There they go. 
O, isn't that splendid. ( Waltzes about stage in a very 
awkward manner.) 

MulUgrub (with head above screen). What's the mat- 
ter with Hannah? She's bobbing about the room like 
a turkey with's its head off. 

Enter Monsieur Adonis, r. 

Mons. A. Charmant, charmant ! (Music stops.) Madam, 
you are ze ecstasy of motion. You have ze grace of 
ze antelope, and ze step of ze fairy. 

Mrs. M. O, don't ! You have come — 

Mons. A. Wiz ze " Boston Dip," as I have promise. 

MulUgrub (aside). " Boston Dip." That's him — 
the scoundrel ! 

Mrs. M. O, I'm so nervous. 

MulUgrub (aside). Yon ought- to be, you hypocrite. 

Mons. M. Zar is not ze least occasion. We are 
here alone. 

.MulUgrub (aside). Not quite, Dip, not quite. 



THE BOSTON DIP. 237 

Moris. A. No one will dare to enter here. Zar is 
none to look at you but I, and am I not discretion 
itself, madam? 

Mrs. M. O, you are the soul of honor. 

Mulligrub (aside). Humbug ! 

Mons. M. Now, zar is no time to lose. Permit me. 
(Takes he?' hand and leads her c.) 

Mulligrub (aside). Dip's taking her hand. .1 shall 
choke ! 

Mons. A. Put your left hand in mine — so. 

Mulligrub (aside). She obeys him. Ah, faithless 
Hannah ! 

Mons. A. Zat is good. Do not tremble — zar is no 
danger. 

Mulligrub (aside). Don't be so sure of that. 

Mons. A. Now, my arm around your waist — so. 

Mulligrub (aside). O, perfidious Hannah! 

Mons. A. Now let your head drop upon ze collar of 
my coat. Ah, zat is good, zat is exquisite. 

Mulligrub. She presses his collar, and my cholar is 
rising. I shall choke with rage. 

Mons. M. All right. Now, one, two, three, and 
off we go. 

Mulligrub (pushing the screen over on to the floor. Dis- 
covered standing in a chair, with doubled fist). Stop ! 
(Very loud.) 

Mrs. M. Ah ! (Screams, and falls into MONSIEUR 
Adonis's arms.) 

Mons. A. Sacre ! Who calls so loud? 

Mulligrub. An injured husband. 

Mrs. M. (jumping up). 0, it's Moses! 



238 THE BOSTON DIP. 

Mulligrub. Yes, it is Moses ! Moses the deluded ; 
Moses the deceived ; Moses the betrayed ; Moses on 
the brink of a precipice. 

Mons. A. Moses ! — Who be Moses? 

Mrs. M. My husband. 

Mons. A. Monsieur Mulligrub ! O, ze light break 
upon my head. 

Mulligrub (jumping down). Tremble, rascal ! You're 
discovered. Woman, begone! O, Hannah! can I 
believe my eyes. You — you make an appointment 
with such a miserable, contemptible, sneaking curias 
that ? But I'll be revenged, rascal ! ( Takes Mon- 
sieur Adonis by throat.) Blaster of peaceful families 
(shaking him), I'll have your life ! 

Mons. A. Help ! help ! I am choke all over too 
much ! Help ! help ! 

Mrs. M. O, Moses, spare him ! 

Mulligrub. Never ! I'll shake the life out of him. 
Kascal ! 

Mons. A. Help ! somebody, quick ! 

Mulligrub. Scoundrel I 

Mons. A. Help ! help ! He squeeze my windpipe 
all too much. 

Enter, r., Ida and Eva. ; c, Dasher and Kids. 

Eva. Father here? 

Ida. And fighting? 

Dasher. What is the meaning of this? 

Kids. Weally, a wow, a wiot, a wumpus ! 

Mulligrub. Meaning of it ! Look at this miserable 
wretch ! — this thing who answers to the name of 
"Boston Dip." 






THE BOSTON DIP. 239 

All. " Boston Dip." 

Mons. A: Sar, you insult me. My name is Mon- 
sieur Achilles Adonis. 

Eva. And "Boston Dip" is the name given to the 
latest movement of the waltz. 

MuUigrub. What, not the name of an individual? 
Then, what is the meaning cf that? (Shows note.) 

Mons. A. Zat is my note, monsieur. 

Mrs. M. Yes, written by me to Monsieur Adonis, 
asking him to give me a private lesson here. 

Eva. And father thought it a love affair? O, 
father ! 

Ida. A man with the name of " Boston Dip ! " O, 
father ! 

Dasher. Friend of the family, you've made a mis- 
take. 

Kids. Yaas, dipped into the wong man. Now isn't 
that good — owisjinal, too. 

MuUigrub (looks at each in a foolish manner, then 
takes Mrs. Mulligrub by the hand; leads her c, and 
kneels). Hannah, I'm on the brink of a frightful prec- 
ipice. I've made a fool of myself. Forgive me, and 
let's go home. 

Mrs. M. I think you have, Moses. 

Dasher. ' There's not the least doubt of it. 

Kids. Yaas, Moses into the bull-wushes ! That's 
good — weally owiginal, too. 

MuUigrub (rising). Monsieur Adonis, I beg your 
pardon for my rudeness. I will make amends, ample 
reparation. Greenbacks shall shower upon your classic 
ac.idemy. To you, gentlemen, I need make no apolo- 



240 THE BOSTON DIP. 

gies. You see the old man has u cut up," and per- 
haps may be made to " shell out." I don't think my 
girls will be able to assist you on that precipice. With 
your permission, I will retire. 

Eva. Don't go, father. Stay and enjoy yourself. 

Ida. And see us waltz. We have splendid partners. 

Moris. A. Proficient in all ze elegancies of ze art. 

Mrs. 31. Moses, I'm ashamed of you. You're really 
proficient in the usages of fashionable depravity ; but I'll 
forgive you, and make you acquainted with my new 
flame, one which you so grievously mistook, my harm- 
less pet, " The Boston Dip." (Music, Beautiful Blue 
Danube. Mr. Mulligrub bows, and retires up, c. 
Waltz, Monsieur Adonis and Mrs. Mulligrub ; 
Dasher and Eva ; Kids and Ida.) 

CURTAIN. 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 



A FARCE. 



CHARACTERS. 

Dr. Adam Acoxite, a Young Physician. 

Frank Friskey. 

Oliver Oldbuck, rich and gouty. 

Silas Sharpset, a Speculator. 

Dennis Doolax, a "Widower. 

Peter Ploipface, with a bad cough. 

Axxie Acoxite, the Doctor's Sister. 

Lucy Lixdex, a Milliner. 

Miss Abigail Alllote, an Autograph Hunter. 

Maggie Mullex, ; 'The Duchess of Dublin." 



COSTUMES. 

Dr. Acoxite. Black suit, white necktie, light side whiskers, 
and light wig. 

Fraxk. Dark coat and vest, light pants, roundabout hat. 

Oldbuck. Gray wig, blue coat with brass buttons, double- 
breasted vest, white neckerchief, foot swathed in ban- 
dages, cane. 

lf> 241 



242 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

Sharpset. Gray suit, red cop wig, full red beard, Kossuth 

hat. 
Dennis. Red wig, blue overall suit, rusty white hat. 
Plumpeace. Made up fat, very red face, dark, old-fashioned 

suit. Eye-glasses attached to a string, which drop from his 

nose when he coughs. 
Annie. Neat morning dress. 
Lucy. Tasty street dress and hat. 
Abigail. Close-fitting black dress, hair " a la Grecian," black 

lace cape, broad straw hat, red nose. 
Maggie. Neat dress of a kitchen girl, sleeves rolled up. 



Scene. — Dr. Aconite's office. Table, a, with a display 
of vials, one or two books, writing materials, &c. 
Chair, l. of table. Two chairs bach. Small table, R., 
with chair beside it. 

Maggie discovered dusting. Her left hand is ivrapped 
in a thick covering. 

Maggie. 'Pon my sowl, it's the docthor's a jewel, 
that he is ! Didn't I burn me wid the hot fat, that 
made me howl wid the pain uv it? And didn't the 
blissid docthor tind me loike his own sisther — wid the 
cooling and haling salve for me fisht, and the wee sugar 
pills for the faver that was burnin' me up intirely ? And 
didn't the blissid crayther, wid the bountiful heart in 'im, 
charge niver a cint for it, or sthop it out uv the wages uv 
a poor girl, as many a hathen would do, bad luck to 'em. 
To be sure he did ; and, by that same token, it's Maggie 
Mullen would run the wide worrld over for the sakes uv 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 243 

him. Oeh, bnt it's little doethoring he has onyhow, and 

perhaps I did him a sarvice giving him the practice 

loike. Will, if the sick folks only knew how handy he 

is. there'd be little rist for the sole uv my fut answering 

the bill. 

Enter Ituiskey, l. 

^:ey. Hallo, Maggie! Where's the doctor? 

Maggie. Sure it's at his brikfast he is. Can't you 
lit him have a little pace for his sowl? "What wid 
bein' up all night, and runnin' to sick folks all day, it's 
little rist he finds onyhow. 

Friskey. That's right. Maggie. Keep up a show of 
business if there is none. But I'm in the secret. 

Maggie. Sacret, is it? Sure there's none. 

Friskey. Ah, we know, Maggie, that our friend the 
doctor has yet to get his first patient. 

Maggie. Indade you're wrong there, Masther Frank. 
Haven't I been under his charge, and don't I know the 
skilful arts uv him? Indade I do, and can give him the 
highest characther. 

iskey. O, I forgot that, Maggie. He's made a 
commencement. How's your hand, Maggie? 

jgie. As comfortable as it can be wid the finest 
midical attention. 

Friskey. That's good. Well, I'll wait for him. (Sits 
at tabl wspaper.) 

Maggie. That's right, sir. He'll be glad to say ye's. 
But mind, don't interfare wid his business. Don't tak 
his mind off the purshuit uv patients, for it's much they're 
wanted, ye's can belave. -/ , R. 

Friskey. I do belave it. Now here's a man who has 



244 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

passed a splendid examination, received his diploma, and 
settled down in Lis native village to practise medicine, 
but so set are the good people that they will never 
patronize him until age and experience have fitted him to 
be their medical adviser. Stuff and nonsense ! While 
he is growing he must starve, unless some way is found 
to move their stubborn will. Not a patient — no, I'm 
wrong — there's his free patient, Maggie, " The Duchess 
of Dublin," as Lucy and I facetiously call her. A free pa- 
tient ! If we could only contrive to get one of the high and 
mighty snobs of the village into his clutches, we'd physic 
him until the whole population flocked to his office. 
(Knock, l.) Come in. (Enter Lucy Linden, l.) Ah, 
Lucy, come in. How d'ye do? (Shake hands.) 

Lucy. Where's Adam? 

Friskey. The first of men is at his breakfast, replen- 
ishing his exhausted system before renewing the toil of 
practice. 

Lucy. You're too bad, Frank. The dear fellow must 
not be laughed at. You know he has no practice. 

Friskey. 0, there you're wrong. The first patient 
has been found. 

Lucy. You don't mean it? Who is it — Squire Prim, 
or Aunt Lucy Spear, Mr. Plumpface, or Mr. Oldbuck? 
Do tell me. Tm dying to know ! 

Friskey. A person of greater importance. One with 
a high-sounding title. 

Lucy. Title — Judge Higgins? General Proof ? You 
mysterious fellow, why don't you tell me. 

Friskey. It's " The Duchess of Dublin." 

Lucy. O, pshaw ! Maggie Mullen. Frank Friskey, 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 245 

you're a torment. I really thought 'twas some distin- 
guished character. 

Frishey. Well, the duchess had a fine characther from 
her last place. By Jove ! an idea. 

Lucy. Get rid of it, Frank ; it's dangerous. 

Frishey. Hush ! This is really a magnificent idea. 
Our doctor must have patients, for several reasons : 
First, he is engaged to a beautiful young lady, whom he 
w r ill not marry until his practice will allow him to sup- 
port her as he desires — 

Lacy. Just as if I cared. I'm sure I'd rather help 
him up hill, than to wait for the elegant mansion he 
hopes to rear on the summit. 

Frishey. There you are interested. In the second 
place, his sister is engaged to a fascinating young gentle- 
man, ahem ! and him she will not marry until her brother 
can afford to let her leave his house, of which she is the 
toiling mistress. 

Lucy. And there you are interested. 

Frishey. Exactly. Therefore we are both interested 
in increasing the doctor's practice as soon as possible. 

Lucy. The sooner the better 

Frishey. Now listen to me. Suppose that a high-born 
lady, a titled lady of Europe, should visit this country ; 
should pass through this village ; should suddenly be 
taken sick. The aid of our good friend the doctor is re- 
quired. He is called in. The news spreads like wild- 
fire through the village. Patients flock to his office. His 
fortune is made, and we are happy in our loves. 

Lucy. Ah, but where can we find such a patient? 

Frishey. She's here beneath this humble roof — " The 
Duchess of Dublin," incog. 



246 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

Lucy. Why, Frank, what a desperate idea ! 

Friskey. Desperate cases require desperate means. 
What say you, will you join me? 

Lucy. In what way? 

Friskey. We will leave this house at once, separate, 
you go to the right, I to the left. Drop in here and there 
quite accidentally, and, in confidence, disclose the in- 
teresting news that " The Duchess of Dublin," incog., 
is in the skilful hands of Dr. Aconite. Magnify it a 
little, and await the result. I am confident that before 
night Adam will be as happy as a rush of complicated 
disorders can make an M. D. 

Lucy. Capital ! only if we are found out — 

Friskey. We'll laugh it off as a capital joke. If, in 
the mean time, Adam gets a good patient, he'll make his 
way to a good practice. 

Lucy. It's an absurd idea to exalt our Maggie to so 
high a position. Should anybody see her — 

Friskey. Ah, but nobody must see her. The duchess 
is incog. You must communicate in the strictest confi- 
dence, and have it distinctly understood that not a word 
must be said to the doctor about his grand patient. 

Lucy. I understand, and you may depend upon me ; 
only if the worst comes I shall throw all the responsibility 
upon you. 

Friskey. And I'll agree to take it all. Come, let's 
set out. 

Lucy. Without seeing Adam? 

Friskey. Yes, for I shan't trust you with him until 
you are fully committed to this arch plot. Come. 

Lucy. What, would you rob me of a sight of my 
Adam? 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 247 

Frislcey. Eve-n so. Am I not robbed of the sight of 
my Annie ? 

Lucy. Not even one embrace ? 

Frislcey. As a substitute embrace me. {Throws his 
arms around her.) 

Lucy (screams). You horrid wretch! (Runs off, l., 
followed by Friskey.) 

Dr. Aconite appears, r. 

Br. A. Am I awake? My friend, my bosom friend, 
with his arms about my affianced bride ! Pills and pow- 
ders ! pestle and mortar ! am I awake ? Well, it's my 
usual luck. Day by day I've seen my stock of provisions 
sensibly decrease. I have this morning devoured the 
last fishball that could be manufactured from the slender 
stock of codfish and potatoes. It has vanished, and so 
has my love, with the friend of my bosom. There's 
nothing left for me now but to make a few slender meals 
of my sugar-coated pills, fricassee the canary, and then 
slowly but surely starve. (Sinks into chair, L.) 

Enter Annie Aconite, r. 

Annie. Well, brother, what would you like for 
dinner ? 

Dr. A. Dinner? ha, ha! Dinner! Well, what say 
you to roast turkey with cranberry sauce ? 

Annie. Brother ! 

Dr. A. Or roast goose, with guava jelly? 

Annie. Brother ! 

Dr. A. Or roast buffalo, with venison steak, devilled 
kidneys, and salmon, with oyster sauce on the half 
shell. 



248 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

Annie. Adam, are you crazy? 

Dr. A. Why not? Our dinner must be an imaginary 
one, so let's have it as costly and luxurious as possible. 
There's nothing in the larder. Let's be extravagant, and 
cook it all. 

Annie. Why, how you rave ! Is the money all gone ? 

Dr. A. Every cent. 

Annie. But the butcher ? 

Dr. A. Would carve me with his meat-axe if I asked 
for credit. 

Annie. Thea I'll try him. He won't carve me. Now 
don't be despondent. We have always had a dinner, 
and, depend upon it, you shall to-day. 

Dr. A. 

" Woman, in our hours of ease, 
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please ; 
But, when the dinner seems to lag, 
You'll have it, if you boil the puddin'-bag." 

Annie, why don't you marry Frank Friskey? 

Annie. Adam, why don't you marry the little mil- 
liner? 

Dr. A. Because I have no patients. 

Annie. And I have patience to wait until you get 
them before I marry Frank. 

Dr. A. But I never shall have a patient. There's 
a dead set against me. They're determined I shall not 
cure or kill anybody until I kill myself with waiting. 

Annie. Not so bad as that, Adam. Be patient, and 
wait. 

Dr. A. O, humbug! My instruments are all getting 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 2-iO 

rusty, my pills old, ray plasters cracking, and my drops 
drying up. Hang it, I'll go and doctor myself for amuse- 
ment. (Knocks l.) 

Annie. Hush! Perhaps there's a call. 

Dr. A. The undertaker, perhaps, in search of a job. 

Come in. 

Enter Dennis, l. 

Dennis. The top uv the mornin' to ye's. Is the doc- 
ther man in — I donno ? 

Dr. A. Yes, I'm the doctor. 

■us. Is that so? Yer rivirance, if ye plaze, Squire 
Croony warns ye's quick. The ould missus's kowlin' in 
the pangs uv insinsibility, the young niasthers took wid 
the jumpin' croup in his skull, and the babby's got the 
janders — an' it's pisoned they all are intirely. 

Dr. A. What, Squire Croony? 
„ Dennis. The same, yer rivirance, onto the hill 
beyant. 

Dr. A. 0, you've made a mistake. He wants Dr. 
Allopath. 

Dennis, Xiver at all, at all. It's Dr. Ac — Ac — 
Acraoniting I was to sind. 

Dr. A. (jumping lip, and pulling off his dressing-gown). 
My coat — quick! quick! (Annie runs off, e.) Mag- 
gie. Maggie, my hat and cane ! Here's luck. {Enter 
Annie, with coat. He jumps into it.) You're sure 
he sent for me? 

Dennis. To be sure I am. 

Dr. A. Gl(^v ! glory! Eich Squire Croony! I'm 
a fortunate man. Where's my medicine case? (Buns 
r., and takes it.) My good man, I'm terribly 
afraid you've made a mistake. 



250 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

Dennis. Troth, I'm afraid they'll all git well afore 
you git there. 

Dr. A. That would be fatal — ahern ! — to me. I'm 
off. I'll return at the earliest possible moment. Should 
anybody call, let them wait. Tell them I am suddenly 
called to my rich patient, ahem ! Squire Croony. {Going 

Off, L.) 

Enter Maggie, r., with Dr. Aconite's hat and cane. 

Maggie. Sure, docther, you're not going widout yer 
hat? 

Dr. A {returning). That would be a mistake. {Puts 
on hat.) You're sure, my man — 

Dennis. O, bother ! Would ye lave them all to die 
suddenly wicl a long illness? 

Dr. A. I'm off. Glory ! glory ! Luck ! (Dances 
to door, l., then suddenly stops, straiglvtens himself, and 
puts on a serious face). Professional dignity, ahem ! 
{Struts off, l.) 

Annie. Maggie, remember, if anybody calls, " The doc- 
tor has been called to Squire Croony." [Exit, r. 

Maggie. That I will — the dear docther ! The luck's 
a-coomin'. 

Dennis. Ah, ye's the fine gurl ! Sure ye's remind 
me uv Donnybrook fair, in the ould counthry, wid yeV 
rosy cheeks, and pearly teeth, as white as — as — as — 
tombstones. 

Maggie. Ah, will, will ! It's the blarney-stone ye've 
kissed, sure, in the ould counthry. f 

Dennis. To be sure I have, colleen. Ah, bliss the 
ould sod ! Sorry' s the day I lift it, wid my own purty 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 251 

wife, Molly, who's been dead and gone the year, an' ine 
wid the childers wid their bills open for food loike the 
little birds — 

Maggie. 'Tis a widerer ye's are? 

Dennis. A lone widerer, wid a tear in one eye and the 
other wide open tight for a purty girl to fill the sitivation 
made vacant by the absince of my Molly. 

Maggie. Is it lonesome ye are ? 

Dennis. Lonesome is it? Begorra ! ye may will say 
that. Sure there's not blankets enough to kape the chill 
out uv me heart, whin I wake in the night and miss the 
music uv Molly's snore — for she had a powerful organ, 
and could pipe " St. Pathrick's Day" through her nose 
widout missing a note. Could yejs riccommend me ? 

Maggie. Troth, I don't know what ye mane. 

Dennis. To a nice, respectable giirl that wouldn't 
mind incumbrances in the shape of nine as purty childers 
as iver built stone huts or made dirt pies, the darlints. 

Maggie. Troth, I think ye've give nine good raisins 
why no smart gurl would loike to take the head uv yer 
establishment. She'd be loike the oulcl woman that lived 
in a shoe. 

Dennis. An' ye couldn't be prevailed upon yeself to 
share my fortunes ? 

Maggie. What's that, ye loonytic? Away wid ye's. 
I'll have none uv yer Molly's childers distractin' my 
shlumbers. So ye can take yer hat, misther, and yer 
lave to onct. 

Dennis. O, now, pity the sorrows of a poor lone, 
afflicted widower. 

Maggie. Git out er that, or I'll break yer skull. Away 



252 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

wid ye's. (Dennis runs off, l. Buns into Oldbuck, 
who enters.) 

Oldbuck. O, murder ! my foot ! you villain ! you 
scoundrel ! 

Dennis. I ax yer pardon. Sind me the bill. \_Exit, l. 

Oldbuck. Confound you for a blundering fool ! Girl, 
give me a chair. (Haggie sets chair, r. c. Oldbuck, 
groaning, hobbles to it, and sits.) Now, then, where's 
the doctor ? 

Maggie. Sure he's at Squire Croony's. 

Oldbuck. Squire Croony's — O, that foot ! Why, he 
must have a pretty good practice. 

Maggie. Ye may will say that. He hasn't ate a mor- 
sel for three days, nor slipt for a wake. 

Oldbuck. Now that's a lie — O, my foot ! Bring me 
a footstool — do you hear? Quick ! 

Maggie. What's that? 

Oldbuck. A footstool, quick, or I'll break this 
cane — 

Maggie (snatching cane from him). Ye'll be civil, so 
yer will, or out uv this house ye go. 

Oldbuck. Give me that cane — 0, my foot ! You 
torment. 

Maggie. Be aisy now, misth^r, and till yer business. 

Oldbuck. I want the doctor. 

Maggie. He's away wid dacint sick folks, that don't 
howl and break canes, and the loike, ye ould hathen ! 

Oldbuck. Do you know who I am? 

Maggie. I niver set my two eyes on ye's before the 
day, and I niver want to again. 

Oldbuck. You're a saucy jade — O, my foot ! 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 253 

Maggie (poking his foot with the cane). Docs it 
barn. 

Oldbuck. O ! ! murder ! Do you want to kill me? 

Maggie. Kape a civil tongue in yer head, and I'll do 
ye's no harm. 

Oldbuck. When will the doctor return? 

Maggie. Soon as he's kilt or cured the sick folks at 
Squire Croony's. 

Oldbuck, Has he any patients in the house? 

Maggie. Yis, one. (Aside.) Sure, I'm his patient ; 
that's no lie. 

Oldbuck. Ah! Male or female ? 

Maggie. Well, from my sowl, ye's a mighty inquisi- 
tive ould chap. It's a famale. 

Oldbuck (aside). Ah, it's true then. Sh ! Come 
here, my good girl. (Maggie approaches him, and hits 
his foot.) O, my foot! You clumsy — 

Maggie (poking his foot witfi the cane). Does it 
burn? 

Oldbuck. ! O ! ! Will you be quiet? 

Maggie. If ye'il kape a civil tongue. 

Oldbuck. I'm dumb. But tell me — this patient — 
who is she ? I'll be secret. 

Maggie. Sure, ye's mighty mysterious. It's myself. 

Oldbuck. You? (Aside.) They said she was incog. 
This must be her. And now I look at her, there's a cer- 
tain grace about her, a queenly air — O, it's the duchess. 
{Aloud.) Your grace — 

Maggie. What's that? 

Oldbuck. Pardon me, your grace, I failed to recognize, 
in^this mean attire, the high-born lady, which your high- 
ness must be. 



254 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

Maggie. The ould fellow's looney, (Pokes his foot 
qmth the cane.) 
^Oldbuck. 0!*0! my foot! 

Haggle. Will ye's kape a civil tongue ? 

Oldbuck. Ten thousand pardons. I forgot your dis- 



Maggie. Disguise is it ? Troth, it's my belafe that 
it's yerself is disguised intirely — in liquor. 

Plump/ace {outside, l., coughing violently). Where's 
(cough) the {cough) doctor? (Enters, l.) 

Oldbuck. Old Plumpface, confound him ! 

Maggie. The doctor, is it? Troth, he's away on a 
call. He'll soon return. Take a cheer. (Hands him 
chair, l. He sits.) 

Plumpface (coughs). O, this infernal cough! I'm in 
the last (cough) stages of a decline. (Coughs.) 

Maggie. The docther'll cure ye's in a jiffy. 

Oldbuck. Not that cough. Egad, he's kept it up for 
twenty years, and grows fat on it. Hallo, Plumpface ! 
I thought Allopath was your medical adviser. 

Plumpface. He's a swindle. (Cough.) He does me 
no good. (Cough.) I'm going to try the new one. 
(Cough.) 

Oldbuck. Humbug ! Keep your money. There's 
nothing the matter with you. You ve tried twenty doc- 
tors. They bleed your pocket, and add power to that 
infernal cough. 

Plumpface. Humbug yourself! (cough) hobbling 
round (cough) with that (cough) foot wrapped up. 
(Cough.) Stay at home and diet. (Cough.) 
. Maggie. Ye'll make a die of it some day, sure, wid 
that watchman's rattle in ye's throat. 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 255 

PI V (to Maggie). Here (cough), I want to 
whisper to you. (Cough.) M 

{ comes close to him.) D'ye call that a whisper? 

Flu . Hush! {Cough.) Don't let Oldbuck 

hear. (Cough.) How is she? (Cough.) 

Maggie. What she d'ye inane ? 

Pit, Hush! The doctor's (cough) patient 

here. 

Maggie. Is it rnysilf? Troth, I'm pickin' up lively. 

PI Her? Can she be the duchess? 

It must be, incog. Your grace. (Cough.) 

Maggie (aside). Your what? 

njpface. I'm delighted to (cough) meet your high- 
ness. (Goughm) When did you leave the old country? 
jh.) 

Maggie. The ould counthry. is i 

Oldbuck. Here, this way. [Aside to Maggie.) 
Plumptace is an old fool. Don't mind him, your grace. 

gie. Will, 'pon my sowl, if here isn't a couple of 
the quarest ould chaps I iver met. O, here's the doc- 
ther. J s Oldbuck his cane.) 

E der Dr. Aconite, l. Exit Maggie, b. 

Dr. A. The ice is broken. - I've cured four individ- 
uals in ten minutes. My fortune's made. 5, c.) 

Plump/': :). 0, doctor (cough), my 

gh ! 

Oldbuck (jumping up). Dear doctor, my foot — O! 

PI Please attend to me first. (Cough.) 

Oldbuck. Xo, I arrived first, and claim your atten- 
tion first. 



256 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

Plumpface. It's a lie. I sent an hour ago. (Cough.) 

Oldbuch. He's a humbug.' That cough's heredi- 
tary, 

Plumpface. You villain ! " (Shakes fist at Old- 
buck.) 

Oldbuch. You swindler ! (Shakes fist at Plump- 
face.) 

Dr. A. (stepping between them) . Gentlemen, be calm. 
'Tis the proud boast of medical science that it can settle 
all difficulties, mental as well as physical. You need my 
aid ; but such are the claims upon my time that I can- 
not, without doing injustice to my numerous patients, 
attend to you at present. Give me your address, and I 
will call upon you at the earliest possible moment. 

Oldbuch. I am Squire Oklbuck. 

Dr. A. (aside). The rich squire — good! 

Plumpface. And I am Peter Plumpface. (Cough.) 

Dr. A. (aside). The great manufacturer — good! 

Oldbuch. I can pay handsomely. 

Plumpface. I can pay liberally. 

Dr. A. Gentlemen, you shall receive my early atten- 
tion. You will pardon me, but I have a patient in the 
house who requires my immediate attention. 

Oldbuch (aside). " The Duchess of Dublin." 

Plumpface {aside). The Dublin duchess. (Cough. 
Aloud.) My dear doctor, I have heard of your skill. 
May I depend upon you ? 

Dr. A. At the earliest possible moment. 

Oldbuch. You will give me early attention ? 

Dr. A. Immediate. 

Oldbuch. Then I'll hobble home at once. Good day, 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 257 

doctor. (Aside.) When old Plump face is out of the 
way, I'll slip back agaiu. \_Exit, l. 

Plumpfabe (coughs). I know your skill, doctor (cough,) 
and shall depend upon you. Good day. (Cough. Aside.) 
I'll come back and quicken his memory when Oldbuck is 
out of sight. [Exit, l. 

Dr. A. (rubbing his hands). Ha, ha! that's a capital 
joke. Dr. Aconite, poor physician, turns two of the 
richest men out of his office to wait his pleasure ! But 
that's the right way. 'Twill never do to be too anxious. 
Egad ! they're rich acquisitions ; for, though I have 
never met them, that cough and that gouty foot have 
been the rounds of the medical fraternity. Wonder how 
they happened to drop in upon me ? Xo matter ; I can 
cure them both in time. Ah, Time, you are the doctor's 
best friend, for you pay as you go. Luck's come at last, 
and that imaginary dinner shall be a real, substantial 
feast, to mark the day when Dr. Aconite took his first fee. 

Enter Sharpset, l. 

Sharpset. Heow d'ye dew. You're Dr. Aconite, I 
reckon ? 

Dr. A. I am. 

Sharpset. Jes' so. Wall, I'm Silas Sharpset, E. s. q., 
the founder and proprietor of the " Excelsior Perambu- 
lating Museum of Wonderful, Whimsical, Extraordinary, 
and Eccentric Living Curiosities." 

Dr. A. Indeed ! 

Sharpset. Jes' so. You'll find in my wonderful col- 
lection studies of human nater in every variety. The 
remarkable and only original living fat girl, seven years 
17 



258 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

of age, who has attained the enormous weight of seven 
hundred and seventy-seven pounds by a daily diet of mo- 
lasses candy and gum drops. 

Dr. A. Remarkable, indeed ! 

Sharp set. Jes' so.. Also, the only real living skele- 
ton, aged thirty-nine, weight seventeen pounds and three 
ounces, who lives on oatmeal gruel, eaten by the spoonful, 
once in forty-eight hours, who kin crawl through a stove- 
pipe of six inches diameter, and dance the Cachuca in 
a quart measure. 

Dr. A. Ah, that's too thin. 

Sharpset. Jes' so. Then there's the man born with- 
out either arms or legs, who can lift a hogshead with his 
teeth, and write a remarkably legible hand with his back 
hair, which he wears in a cue for that purpose. 

Dr. A. Cue-rious, indeed. 

Sharpset. Jes' so. Then there's the bald-headed 
accountant, with his head so full of figures that he can 
run up the longest, account in no time, and, by the force 
of his stupendous intellect, make the sum total appear in 
round figures, visible to the naked eye, on the top of his 
head. 

Dr. A. A calculating baldhead. 

Sharpset. Jes' so. But the assortment is too numerous 
to mention. I kin only say, that for variety, versatility, 
and invention, this collection is unsurpassed, and kin be 
seen in all its beauty for twenty-five cents a head. 

Dr. A. Well, sir, what is your business with me ? 
My time is precious. 

Sharpset. Jes' so. Wall, then, to come to the p'int. 
You've got a nat'ral living curiositv, and I want it. 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 259 

Dr. A. I've got a curiosity? So I have — a curiosity 
to know what you mean. 

Sharpset. Jes' so. Mighty secret, but it's no use, 
doctor ; it's all over town. You'll have to give iu, so you 
might as well make the best terms you kin with me, for 
I've greater facilities for exhibiting the critter than any 
other live man. Jes' so — Silas Sharpset, E. s. q., can't 
be beat. 

Dr. A. Exhibiting the critter, Mr. Sharpset? There's 
a wildness in your eye that betokens insanity. You are 
laboring under a wild hallucination. Go hence. Soak 
your feet, wrap a wet towel round your head, and return 
to your couch at once. 

Sharpset. Jes' so. Keep it up, doctor. But it won't 
fool me. The critter's here. Turn her over to me, bag 
and baggage, and I'll pay you a thousand dollars down. 

Dr. A. A thousand dollars — you'll pay me? Be 
calm, my friend, be calm. You betray unmistakable 
symptoms of a disordered mind. Will you oblige me 
with a little explanation? 

Sharpset. Jes' so. 

Dr. A. Who is the " critter" that you are in pursuit 
of? 

Sharpset. The duchess, of course. Why, consarn it, 
it's all over town. 

Dr. A. The duchess? Ah, yes, poor man, lunacy 
always takes high flights. Ah, who is the duchess? 

Sharpset. Jes' so. Doctor, do you see anything of a 
verdant hue in this optic? (Finger on left eye.) It's no 
use. " The Duchess of Dublin" is in this house ; is un- 
der your charge. Xow do the handsome thing. I'll put 



260 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

her up as an extra attraction, charge double price, and 
divide profits. There's an offer. 

Dr. A. By doubling your price on " The Duchess of 
Dublin"? Now, you must excuse the question, but who 
is " The Duchess of Dublin"? and what have I to do 
with " The Duchess of Dublin"? 

Sliarpset. Consarn it, mister, are you a fool? 

Dr. A. Now gently, friend. Be calm, be calm. 
(Aside.*) O, he's very crazy ! 

Sliarpset. Humbug! Will you, or will you not, ac- 
cept my offer? Half profits for the duchess. Sharp's 
the word ! Quick, or you lose it ! 

Dr. A. My dear friend, it wouldn't hurt you to lose 
a little blood. My lancet's handy. 

Sliarpset. Jehoshaphat ! do you take me to be an 
idiot? 

Dr. A. You'd better 2:0 home. Your wife and chil- 
dren are expecting you. No doubt the little folks are 
chanting, with their childish voices, " Dear father, dear 
father, come home." 

Sliarpset. Jes' so. You can't pull wool over my 
eyes, doctor. Silas Sliarpset is sharpset by name and 
sharpset by nater. You can't fool me. You've got a 
prize, and want to keep it for yourself; but if I don't set 
the populace howling round your door, and make you 
show up the duchess, then you can shave my head, and 
lock me up for life. No monopolies here in living curi- 
osities while Sharpset' s around — not if he knows it : 
jes' so. \\Exit, l. 

Dr. A. He's gone — home, I hope. He's very mad. 
Why don't his friends take care of him. It's dangerous 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 261 

to let a man run round with such horrid ideas as are 
rambling through his brain. The fat girl, the living 
skeleton, the bald-headed accountant, and li The 
Duchess of Dublin. " 'Pon my word, the idea of my 
having under my charge a duchess ! O, it's absurd. The 
man's crazy ; he must be looked after ; I'll follow him 
{takes hat), and see that he does no damage. (Goes to 
door, L.) 

Enters, suddenly, Miss Abigail Allloye, with a large 
hook under her arm. Seizes Dr. Aconite by arm, and 
drags him down, C. 

Abigail (mysteriously) . You are — are you ? — or am 
I mistaken ? 

Dr. A. Eh? You may be right, you may be wrong, 
or you may be mistaken. 

Abigail. You do not answer me ; and I, poor lone or- 
phan that I am, tremble in your presence. 

Dr. A. Eh? Are you often alone? Miss, or madam, 
let's drop this nonsense. Have you any business with 
me? I am Dr. Aconite. 

Abigail. You are the friend of the unfortunate ; the 
g-uide of suffering humanity to havens of rest ; the 
healer of broken hearts ; the finger-post that points the 
way to the mansion of health. 0, human angel, list 
to my woes. 

Dr. A. Madam, or miss, I shall be happy to aid you 
with my professional skill. 

Abigail. Professional skill? Away with it. I want 
it not. I want sympathy, friendship, love. 



262 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

Dr. A. Ah, indeed. Then I'm sorry I cannot help 
you. They are not in my line. 

Abigail. List to a tale of grief. At the age of four I 
lost my mother, at the age of ten my father, at the age 
of fifteen my sister, at twenty my only brother, at twenty- 
five my uncle, at thirty — 

Dr. A. O, stop, stop, stop ! Spare me. I didn't 
kill them. I haven't been in practice a year. You must 
see I had no time for such slaughter. 

Abigail. I am alone in the world. No relatives, no 
friends, u no one to love," — only this. (Shows book.) 

Dr. A. And pray what is that? 

Abigail. A treasure millions could not buy. A pearl 
of matchless value — my life, my friend, my love — my 
autograph album. 

Dr. A. O, indeed, is that all? And you want my 
autograph? With the greatest pleasure. (Attempts to 
take book.) 

Abigail. Away ! Do not profane it with your touch. 
None but the noble stain its spotless pages. 

Dr. A. Ah, indeed ! Pardon my presumption. 

Abigail. No, only the divine wielders of the pen, the 
classic movers of the artistis brush, the noble toilers 
with the gracing chisel, the seraphic sons and daughters 
of song, kings, emperors, queens, the high-born and the 
great can dot their i's in Abigail Alllove's autograph 
album. 

Dr. A. Decidedly select. 

Abigail (opening book). Behold the autograph of the 
Emperor of China. 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 263 

Dr. A. (reading). " "Will you come and take tea in 
the arbor. Te he ! " Ah, did you te-ease him for that? 

Abigail. The name of the Emperor of the French. 

Dr. A. (reading). u Put out the light, and then put — 
Napoleon." Which he did. Very good. 

Abigail. The Queen of Sheba. 

Dr. A. (reading). " Anything on this board for ten 
cents. Saloma." Attentive to business, very. 

Abigail. Dr. Livingstone. 

Dr. A. (reading). 

" On, Stanley, on, 
"Were the last words from Livingstone." 

Original, very. 

Abigail. Joshua Billings. 

Dr. A. (reading). " Duz time fli in fli time? Josh 
Billings." That's a very bad spell. 
■ Abigail. Alfred Tennyson. 

Dr. A. (reading). 

" When I can shoot my rifle clear 
To pigeons in the skies, 
I'll bid farewell to pork and beans, 
And live on pigeon pies." 

A. Tennyson." 

Abigail. Exquisite poet ! 

Dr. A. I admire his taste. 

Abigail. Now, dear doctor, I would add one other 
name to my valuable collection. You can aid me. Will 
you? O, say you will — will you? and take the burden 
from the heart of a lone orphan. 



264: THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN". 

Dr. A. Madam, or miss, I should be very happy to 
assist you — 

Abigail. O, rapturous answer ! O, noble disciple of 
JEsculapius ! The lips of the lone orphan will bless you ; 
the tears of the lone orphan shall bless you ; the smiles 
of the lone orphan — 

Dr. A. Be calm, be calm. In what way can I 
assist you? 

Abigail. You have beneath your roof a noble lady — 
' Dr. A. Eh? 

Abigail. From a foreign clime. You hold her here 
in secret. Let me but get her name in my autograph 
album, and Abigail Alllove will die happy. 

Dr. A. Noble lady? (Aside.) Another lunatic. 

Abigail. Yes, the name of " The Duchess of Dub- 
lin." 

Dr. A. The — dickens! Stark, staring mad. My 
dear young lady, you are laboring under a hallucination. 
Go home at once. Call your friends. 

Abigail. Alas ! I have no friends. Did I not tell 
you I am a lone — 

Dr. A. Yes, yes ; but call in the neighbors, the 
kind neighbors — 

Abigail. But the duchess ! I must see the duchess. 
The hopes, the fears, the life of a lone orphan — 

Dr. A. Lone orphan, go home ; let me alone. I 
have no duchess, know no duchess. You are deceived. 
No, no, dear, go home. 

" Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." 
Abigail. O, you wretch ! You mean, contemptible 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN'. 265 

quack. You have read my album, my precious volume, 
and now refuse my -request. 

Dr. A. But, my dear young lady — 

tail. Don't come near me ! You've broken the 
heart of a lone orphan. You're a base, ungrateful, 
ugly, miserable pill-box ! and I hope you'll never live 
to own an autograph album — there ! [Exit, l. 

Dr. A. Good by, lone orphan. Xow there's a case 
that requires immediate attention. Poor thing ! I 
ought not to have let her go until her friends appeared. 
(Enter Dennis, l. Stands in door r beckoning to Dr. 
Aconite.) Hallo ! who's that? 

Dennis {mysteriously), Sh ! shJ (Creeps down, c, 
beckoning to Dr. Aconite.) 

Dr. A. Well, what is it? 

Dennis. It's all right, docther, it's all right. 

Dr. A. Well, I'm glad to know that, at any rate. 

Dennis. Yis, I'll not brathe a word. It's from the 
owld counthry I am. 

Dr. A. That's very evident. 

Dennis. An' it's mysilf that would give the worrld to 
sit my two eyes on her. Xow, docther, it's a lone 
widdyer I am, an' would ye's go for to do me a kind- 
ness ? 

Dr. A. To be sure I would. 

Dennis. Hiven bliss ye ! Thin rich her out. Let me 
faist my eyes on her beautiful face, her illigant, dignified 
figure. Let me kiss the him of her magnificent dress, 
and hear her swate voice spake the brogue of the giin 
of the say. 

Dr. A. What are you talkiug about? THio do you 
want to see? 



266 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

Dennis. You know will what I mane — her grace, 
the noble, moighty, illigant " Duchess of Dublin." 

Dr. A. What? a The Duchess of Dublin?" Out 
of my house at once, or I shall do you an iujury. 

Dennis. Faix, you don't mane it. Bob an Irishman 
of his right to pay his rispicts to a high-born lady uv his 
own counthry? 

Dr. A. Do you see that door ? 

Dennis. Faix, I'm not blind. 

Dr. A. Then get the other side of it at once. (Takes 
cane.) I've had enough of " The Duchess of Dublin." 

Dennis. Is that so ? Thin I'm the b'y to take her off 
ye's hands. 

Dr. A. Will you leave this house ? 

Dennis. To be sure I will, afther I've seen her grace. 

Dr. A. {rushes at him with cane). O, you will have 
it — will you ? 

Dennis {hacking to door). Aisy, docther ; I want 
none uv ye's medicine. But I'll say the duchess, so I 
will, wid ye's lave or widout it. \_Exit 9 L. 

Dr. A. Has the whole village gone crazy ? or is this 
some infernal plot to drive me into hopeless lunacy ? 

Plumpface coughs outside , then enters , l. 

Plumpface. Doctor (cough), I thought you were com- 
ing to (cough) see me? 

Dr. A. I'll be there in half an hour, Mr. Plumpface. 
Business of a very serious nature has detained me here. 

Plumpface. Yes (cough), I know. She kept you. 

Dr. A. She — Who do you mean? 
- Plumpface. O (cough), it's all right, doctor. I'm in 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 267 

the secret. {Cough.) I've seen her; spite of her dis- 
guise, I knew her at once. (Cough.) 

Dr. A. Knew her at once? Who,, pray? 

Plumpface. O, you sly dog ! (Cough.) The duchess. 

Dr. A. Heavens and earth! She here again? 

Plumpface. She hasn't been away — has she? 
{Cough.) 

Dr. A. Look here, Plumpface. Go home, quick ! 
Go to your room, get into bed, and don't stir until I get 
there. 

Plumpface. What's the matter now? 

Dr. A. Your case has taken a serious turn. You 
are going to get rid of that cough. It's going to your 
head. You will be mad. 

Plumpface. Mad? You don't say so ! What a horri- 
ble idea ! I'm afraid you're right. I haven't coughed 
for three minutes. 0, doctor, is there no hope ? 

Dr. A. Don't stop to talk. Get home at once. 
(Pushes him oat of door, L.) Run for your life. How 
he goes ! The exercise will do his lungs good ; but his 
head, poor fellow ! He's got the duchess fever. 

Enter Oldbuck, l. 

Oldbuck. I say, doctor, w T hat's the matter with 
Plumpface? I met him, running. Is there a fire any- 
where? 

Dr. A. Yes, very near him — in his head. It has 
been turned. 

Oldbuck. You don't say so. By what, pray? 

Dr. A. By " The Duchess of Dublin." 

Oldbuck. Egad ! she's enough to turn anybody's 
head. But I say, doctor, how is she? 



268 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

Dr. A. What? 

Oldhuck. I'm mightily interested in her. How's she 
getting aloog? I've seen her, too. 

Dr. A. O, this is too much. Oldbuck, look at that 
foot. 

Oldbuck. What's the matter? 

Dr. A. It's swelling fearfully. A dangerous symp- 
tom. It must be kept down. (Steps on Ms foot.) 

Oldbuck. O, murder ! Confound you, what are you 
doing ? 

Dr. A. Keeping down the swelling. (Steps again.) 

Oldbuck. O ! Do you want to murder me ? 

Dr. A. (stejjs again. Oldbuck avoids him, and runs 
round stage, crying out). I tell' you, there's no other 
way. (Steps.) Get home, quick ! (Steps.) Quick ! 
If the swelling continues (stejos) 'twill reach a vital part. 
(Stejjs.) Go home ! (Oldbuck runs out, l., crying out.) 
He's gone. No more practice to-day. (Lochs door.) 
O, that infernal duchess ! She's nearly driven me mad, 
mad, mad ! (Sinks into chair.) 

Enter Annie, k. 

Annie. O, brother, what does it all mean? The yard 
is filled with people. 

Enter Maggie, r., ivith broom. 

Maggie. And the fince is covered wid bys, roosting 
loike so many hins. I'll have them off, jist. (Goes, l.) 

Dr. A. Stop ! Don't open that door. My life's in 
danger if you open that door. (Shouts outside, "Hi! 
hi ! The duchess ! the duchess ! ") O, Lord ! the whole 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 269 

village has got it - — and got it bad. O, Annie, if you 
love me, sead for Dr. Allopath, send for Judge Busted, 
or I am completely busted. 

Annie. Brother, are you sick? What does this 
mean? 

Enter Frank and Lucy, r. 

Frank. It means fame, fortune. O, it's glorious ! 

Dr. A. Glorious to have your front yard filled with 
a howling, yelling pack? Hear that. (Shouts outside, 
" Hi I hi ! The duchess ! the duchess ! ") 

Frank. O, that's all right. 

Dr. A. (jumping up). All right ! And perhaps 'twas 
all right when I saw you a half hour ago with your arms 
around my affianced bride. 

Annie. You did? O, Frank, how could you? 

Frank. It's all right, I tell you. (Shouts outside, as 
before.) I can explain. But, in the mean time, we've 
w^ork before us. Here, Lucy, just throw that cloud around 
your head so your eyes alone will be visible. (She does 
so.) That's good. Now, doctor, give Lucy your arm. 

Dr. A. But I would like to know — 

Frank. So you shall. In the mean time unhesitat- 
ingly obey me. Your professional reputation is at stake. 
Give Lucy your arm, go up stairs, open the window, step 
out upon the balcony, and gracefully bow to the assem- 
bled people. (Shouts as before.) 

Dr. A. Yes, but this proceeding — 

Lucy. Is strictly proper. Depend upon it, Adam, 
there is no other way. 

Dr. A. If there is no other way, will you be kind 
enough to tell me what this way is? 

Lucy. Right up stairs. Come. 



270 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

Dr. A. But what is it about? 

Lucy. About time we were up stairs — so come 
along. [Exit) Dr. Aconite and Lucy, r. 

Annie. Now, Mr. Frank Friskey, I should like to 
know — 

Frank. Hush ! (Goes to door, l. Shouts as before.) 
I hear them above. Now he opens the window. Good. 
(Outside shouts, " Hurrah! hurrah ! ^hurrah /") Splen- 
did ! 

Alice. Will you oblige me — (Outside shouts, u Hur- 
rah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! ") 

Frank. Good, good ! Ah, now he's shutting the 
window. 

Maggie. 'Pon my sowl, is it the prisident? 

Frank. The crowd is breaking up. (Knock at 
door, l.) 

Enter Dr. Aconite and Lucy, r. 

Dr. A. Will anybody, male or female, be kind enough 
to look in my face, and tell me if I am Adam Aco- 
nite, or if I am not Acorn Adamite. 

Frank. I'll be back in a minute. (Runs off, r.) 

Maggie. Sure it's the most mysterious mystery that 
iver took place. It bates the deluge, sure. (Knock at 
door, l.) 

Lucy. Shall I open the door, doctor ? 

Dr. A. No — yes — don't mind me. I'm not myself. 
I'm out of my head. I'm mad, mad, mad ! {Sinks 
into chadr.) 

Annie. O, brother ! isn't this terrible ? (Knock, l.) 

Maggie. Bedad, there'll be a breakdown at that door, 
or I'm mistaken. {Opens door. Oldbuck, Sharpset, 



THE DUCnESS OF DUBLIN. 271 

Plumpface, and Dennis tumble in on floor.) Troth, is 
that a pelite way to inter the house? {They pick them- 
selves up.) 

Oldbuck.- Introduce me, doctor. 

Plumpface. No ; me first, doctor. 

Sharpset. I'll hold to my bargain. 

Dennis. Presint me, docther. 

31 aggie (swinging her broom round her head). Shoo ! 
Away wid ye's ! Don't you say the docther's sick? 
{They fall loch.) 

Dr. A. (rising). Gentlemen, I am at your mercy. 
An hour ago I was the possessor of a noble intellect. 
Now, I am like the reed shaken by the blast. To whom 
shall I puesent you ? 

Oldbuck, Plump/ace, Sharpset, Dennis. " The Duch- 
ess of Dublin." 

Dr. A. u Monsieur Tonson come again." (Sinks into 
chair.) 

Maggie. u The Duchess of Dublin." O, be aisy wid 
yer nonsinse. Sure there's nobody here that answers to 
that name at all at all. 

Enter Frank, r. 

Frank. No, because her grace has just been driven 
away in her own carriage. I had the honor of bringing 
her here ; I have had the honor to conduct her from this 
place, and to receive her thanks for the able manner in 
which she has been treated by Dr. Aconite. 

Dr. A. (comes down, c). Have you been taken, too, 
Frank ? Alas ! poor fellow ! 

Frank. O, it's all right ! Listen to me. Annie ! 



272 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

Luey ! (Beckons to them. They come down, c. Oldbuck, 
Plumpface, Sharpset, and Dennis come down.) Your 
pardon, gentlemen, a little family secret. 

Maggie (swings her broom around her head). Shoo! 
Ye are trespassing, d'ye mind ! (They retire.) 

Frank. Doctor, for all the trouble you have endured 
to-day, I, and I alone, am to blame. We are all in- 
terested in your success, and, to insure that success, 
Lucy and I put our heads together. 

Dr. A. And your arms about each other — yes. 

Frank. And concocted a scheme which has succeeded 
admirably. (Oldbuck, Plumpface, Sharpset, and 
Dennis look at each other, then stealthily approach, c) 

Maggie (flourishing broom). Shoo ! Away wid ye's ! 
Have ye's no manners, ye hathens? 

Frank. You have your hands full of patients now, 
from the fact that it has leaked out that you had under 
your charge a high-born lady. You know that one good 
customer will attract others. Your success is assured, 
and our happiness, I trust, not in the distance, as it ap- 
peared to be an hour ago. 

Dr. A. And you have deceived the trusty public, 
and given me position by a lie. 

Frank. No, for " The Duchess of Dublin" is still 
under your roof. Have you forgotten the title I gave to 
Maggie ? and she certainly was your patient. 

Dr. A. I never thought of that, Frank. I owe you 
much. But if ever you attempt another such trick — 

Frank. But I shan't. This one will give me a wife 
(takes Annie's hand), and there will be no more mis- 
chief in me. 



THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. '27 o 

Dr. A. Lucy, what have you to say for yourself? 

Lucy. 0, I'm delighted. It brings our wedding day 
so much nearer. 

Dr. A. Well, I suppose I must be satisfied then. 
Gentlemen (all come clown R. and l.), I have rather 
neglected my business to-day, but, having such a mys- 
terious patient, I think you will pardon me. I intend, 
in the future, to give my attention strictly to village 
practice. 

OldbucJc. It's all right, doctor. I'm proud to have 
as my physician a gentleman who has been the medical 
attendant of so distinguished a personage. 

Plumpface. Yes, indeed, you've sent my cough off in 
a hurry, just by your advice ; and if you can keep it 
from my head — 

Dr. A. No fear, Mr. Plumpface. I'll cure your 
head in short order. 

Sharpset. Say, doctor, can't you give me the address 
of the lady? I'll make her a splendid offer to take a 
position in my Living Curiosity Gallery. 

Dr. A. No, that would be betraying profound 
secrecy. 

Dennis. Sacrecy, is it? Be jabers, it's no sacret 
tli at she's gone. Ye've a sthrong lift in the profes- 
sion, and I've a mind to engage ye's to docther the 
nine childer, if ye'll make the fays conform to the 
size uv thim. 

Enter Abigail, l. 

Abigail. And has she gone? and am I bereft of 
her autograph? O, cruel doctor! to so basely deceive 
a lone orphan — 
18 



274 THE DUCHESS OF DUBLIN. 

Dr. A. Now don't ! Say no more about it, ray 
dear miss — madam. It was a mistake. If you will 
pardon me, I will endeavor to obtain for you the au- 
tograph of the king of the Cannibal Islands, in red 
ink, made from the blood of a missionary. 

Abigail. Will you? O, then I forgive you, with all 
my heart. 

Dr. A. (to audience). Ladies and gentlemen, you 
"have witnessed the success of Dr. Aconite during the 
last half hour in obtaining patients. It may possibly 
ocqnr to you that they have been obtained by false pre- 
tences. But am I to blame? Maggie, come here. 
(Maggie comes down l. of Dr. Aconite.) I am 
seeking patients, and want a good recommendation. 
What can you say for me? 

Maggie. Sure, ye's the illigant docther, so ye are, 
an' it's a plisure to be sick wid the chance of being 
cured or kilt by the loikes uv ye's. 

Dr. A. You hear what she says. Can I hope for 
your support? Will you become my regular patients? 
If you will, it shall be my endeavor to serve you 
well ; and you know I can bring a high recommenda- 
tion from no less a personage than her grace, " The 
Duchess of Dublin." 

Situations. 
r. Lucy. Dr. Aconite. l. 

Annie. Maggie. 

Frank. Abigail. 

Oldbuck. Sharpset. 

Dennis. Plumpface. 

CURTAIN. 



Plays for Amateur Theatricals. 



BY GEORGE M. BAKER. 

Author of "Amatetcr Dramas," " The Mimic Stage" " The Social 
Stage" &c. 



DRAMAS. In Three Acts. 

My Brother's Keeper. 5 male, 3 female characters. 15c. 

In Two Acts. 

Among the Breakers. 6 male, 4 female characters. 15c. 
Sylvia's Soldier. 3 male, 2 female characters. 15c. 
Once on a Time. 4 male, 2 female characters. 15c. 
Down by the Sea. 6 male, 3 female characters. 15c. 
Bread on the Waters. 5 male, 3 female characters. 15c. 
*The Last Loaf. 5 male, 3 female characters. 15c. 

In One Act. 

Stand by the Flag. 5 male characters. 15c. 

* The Tempter. 3 male, 1 female character. 15c. 

COMEDIES AND FAUCES. 

The Boston Dip. 4 male, 3 female characters. 15c. 
The Duchess of Dublin. 6 male, 4 female characters. 15c. 

* We're all Teetotallers. 4 male, 2 female characters. 

15c. 

* A Drop too Much. 4 male, 2 female characters. 15c. 
Thirty Minutes for Refreshments. 4 male, 3 female 

characters. 15c. 

* A Little More Cider. 5 male, 3 female characters. 15c. 

Male Characters Only. 

Gentlemen of the Jury. 12 characters. 15c. 
A Tender Attachment. 7 characters. 15c. 
The Thief of Time. 6 characters. 15c. 
The Hypochondriac. 5 characters. 15c. 
A Public Benefactor. 6 characters. 15c. 

* Temperance pieces. 



■ 



PLAYS FOR AMATEUR THEATRICALS. 

COMEDIES AND FAUCES (continued). 

The Runaways. 4 characters. 15c. 
Coals of Fire. 6 characters. 15 c. 
Wanted, a Male Cook. 4 characters. 15c. 
A Sea of Troubles. 8 characters. 15c. . 
Freedom of the Press. 8 characters. 15c. 
A Close Shave. 6 characters. 15c. 
The Great Elixir. 9 characters. 15c. 
*The Man with the Demijohn. 4 characters. 15c. 
Humors of the Strike. 8 characters. 15c. 
New Brooms Sweep Clean. 6 characters. 15c. 
My Uncle the Captain. 6 characters. 15c. 

Female Characters Only. 

The Red Chignon. 6 characters. 15c. 
Using the Weed. 7 characters. 15c. 
A Love of a Bonnet. 5 characters. 15c. 
A Precious Pickle. 6 characters. 15c. 
The Greatest Plague in Life. 8 characters. 15c. 
No Cure No Pay. 7 characters. 15c. 
rfHE Grecian Bend. 7 characters. 15c. 

ALLEGORIES. Arranged for Music a?id Tableaux. 

The Revolt of the Bees. 9 female characters. 15c. I 
Lightheart's Pilgrimage. 8 female characters. 15c. 
The War of the Roses. 8 female characters. 15c. 
The Sculptor's Triumph, i male. 4 female charac-! 
ters. 15c. 

MUSICAL and Dramatic Entertainments. 

The Seven Ages. A Tableau Entertainment. Numer- ; 

ous male and female characters. 15c. 
Too Late for the Train. 2 male characters. 15c. 
Snow-bound ; or, Alonzo the Brave and the Fair • 

Imogene. 3 male, 1 female character. 25c. 
Bonbons ; or, The Paint- King. 3 male, 1 female char-; 

acter. 25c. 
The Pedler of Very Nice. 7 male characters. 15c. 
An Original Idea, i male, 1 female character. 15c. 
Capuletta ; or, Romeo and Juliet Restored. 3 male, 

1 female character. 15c* 

* Temperance piece. 



